


Butter-cup of Tea

by Nemainofthewater, ThebanSacredBand



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - Urban Fantasy, Angst, Don't copy to another site, Gen, Human Experimentation, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Round Robin, Swearing, fuck Stregobor, gratuitous use of Capitalisation, jaskier is a disaster bi, machinations, relationships are likely to be added, so much angst oh god I am so sorry, very few braincells
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-30
Updated: 2021-02-08
Packaged: 2021-02-28 16:36:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 32
Words: 29,146
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23400196
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nemainofthewater/pseuds/Nemainofthewater, https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThebanSacredBand/pseuds/ThebanSacredBand
Summary: Ciri shelters in a coffee shop to get out of the rain. What happens next may surprise you. (And me. Because we have no idea what's going to happen)
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 309
Kudos: 345





	1. Ciri

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! This is a round robin fic between me (ThebanSacredBand) and Nemainofthewater. We decided on a Witcher AU with a coffee shop and an urban fantasy setting: who knows where this will take us!
> 
> General rules:  
> \- Chapters between 500-2000 words  
> \- Update within two weeks  
> \- No planning!

Ciri likes running. It helps her clear her head, gives her time to not think about the stresses of school and just _be_. So, normally, instead of getting the bus home, she’ll change into trainers, and she’ll run.

This morning, when she’d politely asked her dad what he was up to today, he had hmmmmm’d non-committedly, and asked if she had looked at the weather forecast. Ciri had only hmmmmm’d back in reply. Give him a taste of his own medicine.

Now, she wishes that she’d listened to his advice.

It had been nice when school finished. Sunny, even. She hadn’t thought twice about changing her shoes and setting off home on her own two feet.

She was about halfway when the rain started.

It didn’t start off slowly and build up, as rain normally tends to do, no, it started pouring torrentially right from the start. One moment, the sky was blue. The next, it was a deep grey, almost black. One moment, Ciri was dry. The next, she was absolutely sodden.

She hadn’t brought an umbrella, or any sort of waterproof clothing, with her. Not that it would have done much good, unless she had had some sort of premonition to put it on before the rain started.

Unfortunately, premonitions weren’t really her thing.

She peered through the rain, which seemed almost solid. She was still almost half an hour from home. Which was her own fault, because she didn’t exactly take the least circuitous route home. But, yes, she was still quite a way from home, and, as much as she likes running, she doesn’t fancy running quite so far in this much rain.

Instead, she looks at the buildings lining the street she’s on at the moment. She has run this route plenty of times before, but she’s never paid much attention to anything other than the regular thud of her feet on the pavement.

A café on the corner has its lights on, and doesn’t look too busy. She can duck in there to get out of the storm. Hopefully it’ll clear up soon enough, and she won’t be too late back.

She’s always home before her dad anyway, so if she jumps in the shower he won’t even know that she got caught out in the rain.

The café is warm, so much warmer than the rain that is causing her school uniform to stick to her body. She pauses, just inside the doorway, basking in the heat and light.

“Hello! Welcome to Butter-cup of Tea, how can I – oh! My goodness, dear, you’re soaked to the bone, let me find you a –” The figure behind the counter keeps talking, even as they disappear into the back. Ciri blinks. The few other customers sitting in the café at four o’clock on a Thursday don’t react, as if this sort of thing is normal. Maybe they’re regulars. The person remerge seconds later with a towel, and bustles over to her, wrapping it around her shoulders and pushing her into a chair. It’s slightly warm, and the heat sinks into dripping shoulders.

The man, or at least, that’s what he seems to be, although Ciri knows well enough not to just assume things like that, doesn’t seem to be wearing a uniform, instead dressed in a bizarre combination of expensive-looking clothes; a red satin waistcoat and bright yellow corduroy trousers. But he clearly works here, given the way he swans behind the counter, switching on machines and moving cups.

Before she knows it, he’s placing a mug in front of her. It’s hot chocolate. It smells warm and rich and delicious. Ciri didn’t order it.

“I’m sorry, I don’t –”

“Nonsense, don’t worry about it.” He slides into a seat opposite her, eyes bright and smile wide. “You might have caught a chill! It’s the very least I could do.”

Ciri would argue, that the very _least_ he could do would be nothing, and she might have preferred it. But, well, it would be rude to refuse. She slides her purse out of her pocket, glancing to the board above the counter to see how much she owes.

She doesn’t know this man. It’s best not to accept favours, especially from people you don’t know.

“Thank you,” she says, sliding the coins across the table, and brings the cup up to her face. It’s still hot, but the sip she takes is full of the flavours promised by the scent.

When she looks back up, the man’s head is tilted, his blue eyes boring through her, his expression confused

“It’s really lovely,” she says, and he blinks, his smile returning. She isn’t quite sure what to make of him.

He stands up, sliding the coins she left into his hand. He stares at them for a second, before going back behind the counter, just before another customer appears. He greets them in much the same way as he had started to address Ciri, but this time there was not impromptu dash to find a towel. She supposes that this new cusomer looks slightly less like a bedraggled cat than she must have. They, at least, have an umbrella.

Ciri finds the WiFi password in the corner of the menu board, and quickly types it into her phone, heading straight for the weather forecast that her dad had told her to look at this morning.

It’s. Well. It’s not ideal. The rain isn’t going to let up until the small hours in the morning. She doesn’t really want to run home in this weather. She might have to admit defeat and text her dad. She’s not particularly looking forward to the hmmm that means ‘I told you so’, but even that would be preferable to running all the way home in the torrential downpour outside.

The customer has ordered and been served, and the barista is leaning against the counter. Ciri pushes herself up, the still-warm towel wrapped tightly around her shoulders.

“Excuse me, ah, what time do you close? It’s just, I don’t really want to walk home in this, but my dad doesn’t finish work until five thirty so he won’t be able to get here until after then.” She snaps her mouth shut. She doesn’t know why she said all that. She wasn’t normally quite so talkative. She only needed to know the time he closed.

“Actually, it’s slam poetry night tonight, so I don’t tend to actually shut up before that. Stay here as long as you need to.”

He smiles at her, bright and cheerful. Ciri can’t help but smile back. She texts her dad.

“I’m Jaskier, by the way,” says the man.

“Oh.” Her dad always said to never give her name to strangers. “Everyone calls me Ciri.”

From the grin the barista gives her, that might have been the right way to answer.


	2. Triss

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Triss deserves a raise.

“Triss! Triss!” Jaskier clatters through the doors to the small kitchen area with a BANG, sending puffs of flour flying up from the counter where Triss is working. Triss, angel and light of his life that she is, knows him of old and calmly continues to knead the bread.

“What is it this time, Jaskier?” she says, not looking up from where she’s dividing the dough into sixths and shaping them into rolls. Jaskier is momentarily distracted by her hands, and their calm competency as they expertly shape the dough- and look, he just appreciates people who are good at things and who know it, don’t judge him, and who wouldn’t be half in love with Triss? Everyone should be at least a little in love with Triss! She’s amazing! That’s beside the point though, because-

“Guess who I just saw,” Jaskier says.

“I don’t know. But I have a feeling you’re going to tell me.”

“You know,” Jaskier says, huffing, hands on his hips, “I am your boss, Triss Merigold, and I would appreciate a bit more respect around here!”

He pauses.

“But never mind that now, you’re forgiven, don’t do it again, because Triss! I have seen a vision. I have seen godly beauty amongst men, I have been witness to a sight that few have had the _privilege_ to set eyes on, I-”

“Oh, Jaskier,” Triss sighs, setting the last of the rolls on a tray to undergo their second prove, covering them with oiled clingfilm. “Have you fallen in love again?”

“Fallen in lov- Fallen in love you say! Like I’m a common harlot, giving out her favours at the drop of the hat!” It’s perhaps true that he’s free with his affections, gifting his heart to anyone and everyone, but that doesn’t mean that he’s a _whore._

“You have to admit,” Triss says. “You are a bit of a love slut. Have you met anyone you haven’t immediately fallen in love with?”

“…no. But that’s because humans are so easy to love! Every single one of them has something, some part of them, some spark that beautiful and golden and unique- who wouldn’t love them?”

“Every single human, huh?”

“Every single one.”

“What about Valdo Marx?”

Instinctively, Jaskier scowls and makes a complicated sign to ward off evil. Triss smiles smugly back at him, and he sticks his tongue out at her.

“You are,” he says. “Perhaps correct in this _one_ instance. But if anything, Valdo is the exception that proves the rule! Which means that I’m right. But-” he hurries to continue, cutting off Triss’ words, “-listen, once you see this guy, Triss, you’ll understand what I mean! He’s the furthest thing from Valdo than you can possibly imagine.”

“Jaskier,” Triss says. “I’m covered in flour. And I still have another dozen pizzas to make for slam poetry night, so if you don’t mind, I’m going to have to pass-”

“Nonsense,” Jaskier says. “You look at beautiful as ever, a vision in white-” he seizes one of her dough-covered hands and bows over it, depositing the tenderest of kisses, “-and no one would dare challenge that assertation. No one with eyes, in any case.”

Despite herself, Triss’ lips twitch into a smile, and Jaskier crows in victory. Sure, people have found him ‘annoying’ and ‘too much’, but he also prides himself on his ability to charm his way out of the increasingly hostile situations that he finds himself in.

“Go on, then,” Triss says, and this time Jaskier can’t help the verbal ‘yes!’ that escapes him. “Let’s see this new Muse of yours.”

“You joke,” Jaskier says, dragging her to the door. “But I really do think that he could be the one! Just one look at him, and I could hear the words flowing through me-”

The doors open with another loud THUD- though all of his regulars know better than to react- and then they are behind the counter, staring out into the café. His pride and joy. One of the bets things that he’s ever done with his life. Small and cosy, with thirteen mismatched tables spread around the space, surrounded by comfortable (and incredibly ugly) sofas. Upon one Ciri is sitting talking to the most perfect specimen of manhood that Jaskier has ever been fortunate enough to see, ever.

“…He is pretty,” Triss says.

“I told you so!” Jaskier says in vindication. “I can’t even- just looking at him makes me want to scream at how stupidly symmetrical his face is. I mean, he looks like he’s been genetically engineered to be a 1920’s movie star!”

His voice rises steadily, and Ciri’s father looks over at them. Jaskier whimpers and tries not to melt. Jaskier gives him an awkward wave. The other man looks back at him, brow furrowed in confusion, and raises his hand in response. Jaskier sighs.

“He could strangle me with those hands, and I’d thank him,” he says. He ignores Triss’ eye-roll.

“Let’s not start with that,” Triss says. “Have you actually talked to this ‘God in mortal form’ of yours?”

“No,” Jaskier huffs, “And I don’t appreciate your finger quotes. Also, stop being so weird, he’s staring at us.”

“I’m not the one being weird,” Triss mutters, but Jaskier ignores her. Because he’s coming this way. Oh goodness, he’s coming this way.

There’s a shove to his back, and then he’s stumbling forward toward the counter. He swings his head around to glare at the traitorous Triss who has the gall, the absolute gall!, to smile back at him. _Good luck_ she mouths and then disappears back into the kitchen. 

“Traitor,” he mutters.

“Excuse me?”

“Not you!” Jaskier says. “You’re not- I mean I don’t even know you, how could you have betrayed me- I mean-” he takes a deep breath. “Hi,” he says, once he’s calmer. “You must be Ciri’s father! _Welcome to Butter-cup of Tea_ , can I get you anything?”

“No,” the man says. “I just wanted to thank you for looking after Ciri.” Then he takes his wallet out of his sinfully tight trousers and- look, maybe Jaskier gets a little distracted but who wouldn’t? No, really, who wouldn’t because he would like to borrow a bit of their self-control, please and thank you.

“Oh,” Jaskier says once his brain has revered from its brief (and completely understandable!) shut down. “I thought you didn’t want anything?”

The man smiles at him, and he melts. Again. Because his eyes- a most magnificent shade of gold- are the sort of things that a man could drown in, and his ash-blond hair- so similar to Ciri’s!- looks beautiful tied back, but he can’t help but think of what it would look like down and framing his face-

“I don’t,” the man says. “But this is to pay for Ciri’s hot chocolate.” A pause. "And the hospitality."

Jaskier narrows his eyes. “No,” he says, pushing the money back at the man. “That was a gift. It’s rude to refuse a gift.”

“I can’t just let you-”

“La, la, la,” Jaskier chants, slamming his hands over his ears. “I can’t hear you. Nope! Because if I could, I would have to tell you that it’s incredibly rude to refuse a gift! In fact, you could say that it was bad luck, and you wouldn’t want to wish bad luck on me, would you?”

The man sighs. “Surely,” he says, and his voice is low and rough and Jaskier doesn’t know how he’s expected to _work_ in these conditions, “-the bad luck would be on me in that case?”

“That’s not how luck works,” Jaskier says, cautiously removing his hands. “But, hmm, just in case-”

He flashes the man his best smile, undaunted at the neutral expression on the man’s face. “How would you and Ciri feel about sticking around for another hour or so? It’s slam poetry night tonight, and it’s meant to be a good one! Triss makes the _best_ pizza, especially for it. You have to try a slice; on the house! Of course,” he continues, a little intimidated by the silence despite himself, “-you might be busy, or have an early morning tomorrow, or actually a myriad of other things that I haven’t thought of-”

“Your idea of repaying you for a kindness and a hot drink,” the man interrupts his panicked rambling, and thank goodness for that, “-is to offer us more free food?”

“I mean,” Jaskier says, voice small. “Yes?”

There’s a beat. Then-

“Geralt.”

“What?”

“My name. It’s Geralt. It’s only polite to introduce yourself to the man who’s going to feed you.”

“ _Oh,_ ” says Jaskier, a rush of giddy pleasure flowing through him. “Yes! I mean, yes, I’m glad to have you, Geralt.” He says the name like a caress, like a prayer, like a spell.

“And I’m-”

“Jaskier,” Geralt says. “Ciri told me.”

And then he does smile and Jaskier’s heart just about bursts because- oh. It’s so much better than he had thought. There’s a bright spark zinging through his veins and his heart is beating in his ears and he swears that the room is glowing and shimmering in front of his eyes.

“That’s good- I mean, make yourself comfortable, I’ll just- yes!” Jaskier says, and then flees back to the safety of the kitchen.

“How’d it go, Romeo?” Triss asks.

“Even better than I’d hoped,” he says. “They’re staying for slam poetry night.”

“ _What?_ ”

Triss sounds- alarmed.

“Jaskier,” she says. “They’re _human._ ”

“Yes? It’s just slam poetry night?”

Triss groans. “Jaskier,” she says patiently. “It’s the first Thursday of the month. It’s not just slam poetry night. It’s _slam poetry night._ ”

“Oh,” Jaskier says with a dawning horror. “Oh _shit._ ”


	3. Geralt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt comes to a realisation

Geralt watches as the pretty, garishly-dressed young man vanishes back into the café’s kitchen. There is something about him, something he can’t quite put his finger on. Something that had led him to give his name, unasked for, that had led him to agree to stay.

He stands there, lost in thought, lost in those pretty blue eyes, and he can’t help but listen to the conversation taking placed behind the closed door with his supernaturally strong hearing.

“Jaskier. They’re _human_.”

Hmmmmm. That explains it then. Because if they are commenting on people being human, that means they most certainly are _not_.

Geralt spins back round to where Ciri is still sat, slightly damp and just draining the last of her hot chocolate.

“We’re going.” He says. She looks up at him in surprise, the towel that is still curled around her falling slightly.

“But didn’t you just tell Jaskier-”

“ _Ciri_. We’re going. Grab your things.” Clearly his tone brooks no argument, because she stands up, folding the towel and picking up her still-dripping bag. She shoots him a look that says that she _will_ ask him for a proper explanation the moment they’re somewhere private, and heads towards the door. Geralt can’t help but sigh, watching after her. She’s grown so much, even in the short time he’s known her.

Geralt dumps a handful of change on the towel, certainly more than the hot chocolate should have cost, but hopefully enough to downplay the rudeness of leaving after promising to stay. He’s not sure what sort of being this Jaskier is, but there are certain creatures who get very offended at the smallest slight. Geralt can only hope that Jaskier isn’t one of them.

Then again, Geralt has no intention of ever seeing Jaskier again.

And… that thought tugs a little differently in his mind. The way he feels about Jaskier, he’s not sure he’s felt about anyone since… since Yen.

Geralt decides to ignore it. It has to be some sort of spell that Jaskier has cast on him, and its effects are obviously long-lasting. It’s the only possible explanation. But spells only last so long and a certain distance away from the caster – well, unless it’s cast by a witch, and Geralt is almost certain he would have been able to smell it if the brightly-dressed man had been one. In any case, the spell will surely run its course soon, and Geralt will never think of him again.

Still, part of him doesn’t want to go.

Ciri is already halfway down the street, leaning against Roach, Geralt’s old 4x4, by the time he leaves the café.

“So? Why did we have to leave right after you promised we’d stay?” Ciri asks when he reaches her. Geralt merely hmmmmms, unlocking the car and sliding into the driver’s seat. Ciri manages to wait until she is safely secured in her own seat, and they have set off home, before she asks the question again.

“Jaskier was reminded that tonight’s poetry whatever was not open to humans,” Geralt replies tersely.

“So we left because…” Geralt keeps his eyes on the road, but he can almost feel Ciri staring at him.

“They think we’re human and I’d rather keep it that way.”

“Hmmmmm,” says Ciri, and Geralt gets the feeling that he’s being mocked by his twelve year old daughter. “That sounds to me a lot like you’re saying ‘because I’m a recluse and don’t want to be forced to interact with other non-humans’.”

Geralt lets out a hmmmmm of his own. She’s not wrong, exactly, but it’s not just that. He’s not good with words, he’s never been good with words. How can he express to Ciri that all he wants is to keep her safe?

Speaking of keeping her safe… “Do you want to tell me why you were caught in the rain halfway across town instead of being on the bus home?”

“No,” comes Ciri’s reply. Geralt glances at her out of the corner of his eye. She is staring straight out of the front window, a slightly sullen expression on her face. Well, he won’t be the one to break this silence.

They reach the small apartment block that the pair of them call home, but Geralt doesn’t move to leave when they pull in to park. Instead, he turns to her, raising an eyebrow wordlessly. Ciri stares back, but it doesn’t take long for her resolve to crumble.

“I like running home. Instead of getting the bus. I didn’t know it was going to rain!”

Geralt rolls his eyes and slides out of the car. He knows Ciri is following him, he can hear her clearly: the click of her seatbelt and the shut of the door and her feet on the ground and the beat of her heart. And, of course, her continued excuses about why she was out in the rain.

He doesn’t say anything until they are both inside the flat, inside the wards that he had paid a witch a good deal of money to have installed, through which only Geralt, Ciri, and Geralt’s closest family can pass.

He turns to face his daughter, kneeling down so he can look her in the eye. “I’m not going to stop you running home. But if I find out you’ve been hanging out in strange cafés again, then you _will_ be grounded indefinitely.”

From the look that flashes over Ciri’s face, his daughter may have taken that as a challenge.

Geralt sighs as Ciri runs off to her room, and wonders once again how he ended up as guardian of a headstrong pre-teen.


	4. Essi

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gossip.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for gratuitous use of capitalisation.  
> If people don't know who Essi is, she is a character in one of the short stories in the Last Wish. She's another bard, and a younger sister to Jaskier, and she is amazing.

The door opens with a cheerful tinkle of the bell and Essi shivers as she feels the protective wards pass over her. They always feel like spiderwebs to her; silken, smooth, and something she’d rather avoid altogether. Not that she begrudges Jaskier the wards, of course. _Butter-cup of Tea_ is neutral territory, and she knows full well what stringent measures must be in place in order for it to remain that way.

“A bit much, aren’t they?” Valdo says as he enters behind her. “You’d think that Jaskier could lower the wards for one evening a month…”

“You’re an idiot,” Essi says to him. “A real idiot, Valdo. And if you feel that way, remember that the only thing that’s stopping me from cursing you are those wards.”

“As if you could-”

But Essi doesn’t hear the rest of his sentence, because she’s already striding toward the front counter, determined to get her drink and possible a slice a pizza before the others turn up. Maybe something sweet; yes, she deserves something sweet. After all, she’s had to put up with _Valdo Marx_ for an entire minute and will probably have to deal with him for the next few hours as well. Urgh.  
  


“Hi Triss,” she says, pulling out her purse. “I’d like, er-” she scans the board, trying not to laugh too much at Jaskier’s idiosyncratic naming. “One Chai and Dolls, one slice of whatever pizza you have, and a Kiss me, Cake, please.”

“The Kiss me, Cake is strawberry and almond at the moment,” Triss says.

Essi’s nose wrinkles in disgust. She hates strawberries, despises them beyond the bounds of rationality and reason. “Thanks for the warning,” she says. “In that case, I’ll have the, er-” she scans the board once again. Jaskier’s menu, while impressive in how bad the puns are, doesn’t actually give her a lot of clue as to what she’ll be getting. That’s on purpose, because the menu fluctuates depending on what’s in season and what Triss is in the mood to make, but it really isn’t helpful when it comes to moments like this.

“Can you hurry up?” says Valdo behind her. “Some of us want to get served _before_ it starts.”

“Shut up, Valdo,” she says, absently, still scanning the menu. Chocolate Mary Pop-pins, the Scones of Music, the Buns of Mormon…

“What about a Phantom of the Opera cake?” Triss suggests. “It’s a new recipe.”

“What is it, exactly?”

“Just a normal opera cake. With a mask piped on them.”

Essi smiles despite herself. “Of course they are,” she says. “Did Jaskier do the piping?”

“You must be joking. Don’t you remember what he did last time he was left unsupervised in the kitchen?”

Both of them wince in remembrance.

“In his defence,” Essi says. “He didn’t know that flour was _that_ flammable.”

“And he’s an idiot.”

“That as well.”

“Speaking of Jaskier,” Essi says, as Triss starts to ring up the order, “where is he?”

It’s a bit surprising that he hadn’t been there to greet her the moment she walked through the door; all boundless energy and eye-searing clothes. He’d posted a picture of his outfit on the café's Instagram that morning; she hadn’t hesitated on telling him that he looked like a Ronald MacDonald knockoff there and then, but she was looking forward to mocking him in person.

“He’s sulking in the back,” Triss says. “He invited his new Muse to tonight’s meeting, only to have them run out on him.”

“Oh, that’s a pity,” Essi says. “I’ve heard a lot about Priscilla’s guitar work; I was looking forward to meeting her.”

“ _Not_ Priscilla,” Triss says, leaning forward and giving her a conspiratorial look. “A new muse. Long white hair, golden eyes,” she waggles her brows. “ _Male_.”

“ _Oh_ ,” Essi breathes. “I didn’t realise there was anyone new in town. Or are they from around here? Is that why they bailed? Because I can understand not wanting to infringe on another Choir’s territory-”

But even as she speaks, Triss is shaking her head. “No,” she says. “I don’t think you understand. I don’t think that that guy was even a Bard.”

“Melitele,” Essi says, ignoring Valdo’s impatient tapping. “And he was going to bring him to the meeting tonight? That’s moving a bit fast, isn’t it? What is he, then? Fae? A Shifter? Vampire?”

“Human,” Triss says, and Essi draws back.

“ _Human?_ But- Jaskier knows that humans aren’t allowed-”

Triss snorts. “When has that ever stopped him?” she says. “Seriously, Essi. When has anything like ‘tradition’ or ‘laws’ stopped Jaskier when he’s found a new muse? Never.”

“Tonight though? When his mother is leading the Choir? It looks like his new muse has more sense than our buttercup- there are times and places to introduce your parents to your new muse, and this has to be one of the worst.” She pauses. “Though, is that why Jaskier’s augmented the wards? Because I didn’t want to say anything but-” she hums, one pure note, high and exploratory. It resonates through the air, moving through the café and setting the wards alight. There are markedly more of them than there had been last month.

“No,” Triss says. “That’s because of the note that-”

“Oh, for Melitele’s sake,” Valdo barks from behind them. “Am I going to get served anytime soon? Because at the moment, it looks like the heat-death of the universe will happen before that! All I want is a cup of black coffee!”

“Black, like your soul,” Essi mutters, but she does move away, cradling her food awkwardly to her chest. “I’ll speak to you later,” she says to Triss and then walks over to claim a table. She settles herself comfortably in one of the ugly chairs, placing her food on the table and her lap harp on the seat next to her, in a vain effort to stop Valdo from sitting next to her. Neither she nor Jaskier particularly like Valdo, but by dint of the three of them being the only Bards of an age in their Choir, they’ve been forced together so often that they’ve formed a kind of neutrality. Constrain themselves to verbal battles, as opposed to Musical ones.

And then she draws her instrument out of its case and starts to tune it absently, eyes on the door. Jaskier will be out, sooner or later, and she can pump him for information then. Hopefully he’ll get here before the meeting starts. And before she’s forced to engage in too much small talk with Valdo. 


	5. Triss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Triss watches and gossips

Triss wipes down the counter. All the pizza is gone – it always goes down well – and everyone is in their seats, ready to play or to _listen_. The clock is ticking down to eight PM, and now all they are waiting for is the Lady Pancratz to arrive and her brooding son to drag himself out of the kitchen.

Triss would be worried about Jaskier disappearing in search of his golden-eyed Muse (“They’re like molten honey, Triss!”), but she knows that there is almost nothing that would stop a Bard from missing a performance with their Choir. Choir is too vital, for their community, for their health, for their sanity.

So when the Lady Pankratz bustles through the door, precisely five minutes before they are due to start, as she always is, Triss pops her head through the kitchen door.

“Your mother’s here.” Jaskier doesn’t respond, only pouts, grabbing his lute case. She holds the door open for him. He pauses in the threshold, sighs, and steps out into the room.

Triss watches as he sits down by Essi and Valdo, his unusually sombre mood at odds with his bright clothing. He isn’t drawn in by Essi’s attempts at conversation, or Valdo’s jibes, he simply sits there, morose, tuning his lute. Well, Jaskier has always been melodramatic and fickle. Triss won’t bother worrying about him if he’s still upset and obsessing in a few days.

Now, though, the Lady Pankratz claps her hand, and the Choir starts to sing.

It’s always a delight to watch a Choir. Of course it is, it’s supposed to be. Bards feed off the emotions their music produces, be it foot-stomping joy or the pain of heartbreak. It’s magnified in a Choir, with the emotions of each Bard bouncing off each-other. Being in the Audience for a whole Choir in Performance reminds Triss of flying – she doesn’t get to do so as often, now that humans have invented cameras and drones and satellites, and flying through a Choir’s song makes her feel almost normal again.

There’s a reason humans aren’t invited. It would just be too much for them. (And because they cannot keep secrets).

Yennefer slides in the door ten minutes after the music starts, as she always does. _Butter-cup of Tea_ may be neutral ground, but Yen has never been particularly good at making small-talk with people she doesn’t like.

She walks up to the counter where Triss is sat, and hops up to join her. Triss shivers where the Vampire’s cold skin presses against hers, but leans into the contact. She doesn’t see Yen as often as she used to, and she always misses her old friend’s company.

They know better than to talk and interrupt the music, not that they’d want to. Instead, they tune in and listen, their hearts wide open. There will be plenty of time to talk later.

There is plenty of time, once the music stops. Everyone always hangs around for a while afterwards anyway, the Bards sated, the Audience delighted for a neutral opportunity to stop and talk. Triss and Yennefer head into the kitchen, where Triss pulls out a bottle of something red and alcoholic from where she had stashed it for exactly this purpose.

As they always do, as they have always done for as long as they have been friends – over three hundred years, now – the pair take the opportunity to catch each-other up on the news and gossip from everyone they know. Yen is a creature of the Night, and has plenty of information about the battle in and between the covens and courts of the Vampires and Ghouls and Unseelie Fae.

Triss, a Seelie Fae and ever a creature of the Day, gets most of her gossip from Jaskier, nowadays. It’s a side-effect of being in the kitchen all the time rather than outside meeting with people. Not that she would change it for the world; she loves cooking and baking for her best friend’s café. Besides, Jaskier hears a lot of things and tells her all of them, so it’s not like she’s missing anything.

Speaking of Jaskier-

“Jaskier’s found himself a new Muse,” she says. Yen leans forward, conspiratorially. Jaskier has always been one of the Vampire’s favourite people to gossip about. The pair pretend to hate each-other, and Triss thinks they might well have, once upon a time, but she also knows that Jaskier had been the one to invite Yennefer to be a member of the Audience for the Choir, and she hadn’t missed a performance since.

“Oh yeah? How long has he known this one? A week? A day?”

“Try ten minutes.” Yennefer’s eyes widen, her face spreading in a broad grin, sharp canines flashing.

“That’s got to be a new record. Are they pretty, at least?”

“Not really my type. Tall, looks like he could bench-press a car. Long white hair. Golden eyes that ‘glow like the stars themselves’, apparently, not that I got close enough to see them. He promised he’d stay and then disappeared less than five minutes later, which probably didn’t help Jaskier’s obsession.”

Yennefer’s eyes are narrowed slightly at the description, like she’s trying to work something out. “I don’t suppose he gave his name, did he?”

“Did he? By Melitele, Jaskier hasn’t stopped sighing it since he found out. It’s Geralt.” Yen lets out a bright laugh, her eyes lit up with mirth as though this is the funniest thing she has heard in _years_.

“Geralt? Geralt of _Rivia_?” She can barely get the words out through her laughter.

That’s… that’s really not the response that Triss had expected. “Yen. Yennefer. Do you _know_ this guy?”

Yennefer just hums, a sly half-smile playing on her face.

“Oh, goddess. Please don’t hurt them.” Triss says, but she knows within her heart that it’s already too late to deter Yen from whatever she’s planning.


	6. Dara

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dara puts up with a lot.

_I’m in_ , Dara sends. _And I can’t see your dad anywhere._

The café is entirely deserted, in fact. Maybe it’s because it’s a Friday afternoon? People must either be at work or want to do something other than hang around drinking coffee when they could be getting back home and celebrating the start of the weekend.

It’s only a moment and then Ciri cautiously opens the door and sidles over to him. Her hair has been shoved into a baseball cap and she’s wearing dark sunglasses to hide her eyes. She looks, in his opinion, utterly ridiculous, but he’s not going to be the one to tell her that.

“I’ve never been here before,” he says instead. “My parents told me to avoid this side of town.” He doesn’t know why exactly, only that there are certain parts of town where he’s only to venture if invited, and then only with an adult. But when Ciri had cornered him after school and demanded that he go with her to scope out this café… well, not many people can go against the force of nature that is Ciri, and he most certainly isn’t one of them.

“That’s weird,” Ciri says. She grabs his hand and drags him over to a table near the back. She takes off the hat and glasses- thank the goddess- but keeps scanning the room, eyes narrowed. “There isn’t anything dangerous around here. Just- little shops and cafés and stuff, but nothing dangerous.”

He has to agree; there’s nothing intrinsically strange in this café. Apart from the name. With its mismatched furniture and weird menu, it does feel a lot like a hipster’s delight, but the same can be said about many a café and Ciri hasn’t been banned from any of those. That he knows of.

Ciri sits down, back to the wall, so that she can see the whole café and takes out her English worksheets and an A4 pencil, setting them on the table with a mathematical precision. She makes no move to start filling it in, though.

“Where is he,” she mutters. She’s fidgeting, her leg bouncing up and down under the table and her hands drumming the table. She can never keep still, not like Dara who’s perfectly happy keeping to the shadows whenever possible. And when he isn’t being dragged out of them and into Ciri’s orbit. She’s going to be the death of him one day, and if her father learns that they’re going against his explicit orders not to come back to _Butter-cup of tea_ then that day is likely to be pretty soon.

So, he’s hoping that Ciri has a good reason to be here. And not just because she has a crush on the barista.

“Maybe he’s just in the back?” Dara suggests, taking his own place at the table opposite Ciri. “I mean, he could just be taking his break, right?”

“I guess,” Ciri says, but she doesn’t sound convinced. Her hand has started to _tap tap tap_ again on the tabletop. “I just don’t understand why Geralt doesn’t want me to come here. I mean, I get that they’re not human, but none of us are human, Dara!” Her voice rises and Dara flinches as she makes an oblique gesture at his ears. He pulls his beanie hat further down.

“Maybe they’re dangerous?” Dara says. “I mean, you’re the Chosen One. There must be loads of people who want to get their hands on you. I bet your dad’s just trying to keep you safe.”

Immediately, he knows that he’s mis-stepped. Ciri scowls at him, dark as a thundercloud. “ _Geralt_ ,” she says, stressing the name, “Isn’t the boss of me. And if I’m this mythical ‘Chosen One’, destined to stand against the forces of darkness, then should I at least meet some of the forces of darkness? I mean, why kind of stupid Chosen One has a curfew and can’t even go out to a nice café because she might get kidnapped! Plus, you didn’t see Jaskier, Dara. There’s no way he’s one of the forces of darkness. He’s too nice.”

Privately, Dara thinks that Ciri doesn’t know what she’s talking about. Yes, she’s being trained by her dad who is the best fighter that Dara has ever seen. And yes, she’s meant to have these mystical powers that are supposed to manifest on her fourteenth birthday. But for all that she’s astonishingly naïve: of course people who _seem_ nice should be regarded with suspicion until proven otherwise. Because you never can tell who’s lying and who’s telling the truth, and if you’re complacent then you’re dead. 

“Look,” Dara says instead. “Why don’t we go and get something to drink? And that way it looks like we have a legitimate reason to be in the café and we won’t get kicked out.”

Ciri nods at him. And then very seriously starts to gather her hair under her hat.

“No, it’s fine!” Dara says before she puts the sunglasses back on. “I’ll go and get it. Er, you said that there was hot chocolate, right? I’ll get us some hot chocolate.”

It takes him a while to first decipher the menu, then get the attention of the barista- who being female and normally dressed probably isn’t this Jaskier that Ciri is looking for- and then bring the two mugs of hot chocolate back to their table. And when he does finally get back to their table, he almost drops the drinks. Because Ciri isn’t alone.

“Dara,” Yennefer of Vengerberg says, smiling toothily at him. “It’s lovely to see you again. I also do love meeting Ciri’s little friends.”

“Oh my god, Aunt Yen,” Ciri moans, slumping down in her chair. “Why do you have to be so embarrassing?”

Dara, pinned beneath the vampire’s gaze, wouldn’t call what Yennefer is doing _embarrassing._ More like terrifying.

“Don’t be silly, dear,” Yennefer says, looking away and suddenly it feels like Dara can breathe again. “I just want to help you kids out.”

Dara doubts that. Dara doubts that so much. But he doesn’t have a choice. So, he puts the hot chocolates down on the table. And then sits next to Ciri, eyeing the vampire warily. Who takes his hand under the table and squeezes it gently.

“You want to help us out, aunt Yen?” Ciri says. “Then talk.”


	7. Yennefer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yen schemes

“You want to help us out, aunt Yen?” Ciri says. “Then talk.”

Yen smirks at the girl’s tone. It’s sounds as though she’s been watching a few too many poorly-made police shows, which, knowing Geralt and his taste in TV, wouldn’t be the most surprising development in the world.

Her poor friend Dara looks like he’s about to start panicking, even as Ciri not-so-subtly grasps his hand under the table. Yen relishes the fact that she is just as intimidating now as she has always been. Then again, it might be Ciri’s hand that’s causing the problem. Or it might just be his resting expression.

In any case, Yennefer doesn’t want to scare Ciri’s friend off. She likes being ‘Aunt Yen’. She’s never been an aunt before. The fact that after everything that happened between her and Geralt he still trusts her with Ciri, and that fact that Ciri generally seem to _like_ her, are enough motivation for Yen not to upset the girl and her friend now.

She schools her expression into a hopefully less menacing smile, teeth tucked behind her lips, and focuses her attention on Ciri, because goodness knows Dara might start crying if she looks at him too hard. “Well, a pretty butterfly told me that you and Geralt stopped by here yesterday afternoon, promised to stay into the evening, and then disappeared without saying goodbye.”

“We did!” Ciri exclaims, far too loudly for the small café. Yennefer raises one eyebrow archly (a good side effect of immortality is that there is plenty of time to learn how to master such expressions). If Ciri isn’t careful, Jaskier might hear her from where Triss is distracting him in the kitchen, and it had been hard enough to convince Triss to help keep him occupied. Yennefer doubts her friend would even try to stop him from running out to join them. Triss has always been a lot more soft-hearted than Yennefer.

“We did!” Ciri says again, much quieter this time, looking slightly ashamed. “And he wouldn’t even give me a proper reason why! I think it’s because he’s a miserable loner. Wait! Is the butterfly Jaskier! Do you know him? He was so nice to me yesterday!” She doesn’t even take a pause for breath. It’s quite impressive.

Yennefer chokes down on her amusement at her description of Geralt. If she was a more charitable person, she would point out that if Geralt was a ‘miserable loner’ as Ciri described him, then he wouldn’t have taken the girl in in the first place. Unfortunately for Geralt, ‘charitable’ has never been an adjective used to describe Yen. Not that Geralt would expect it to be. In fact, she and the Wolf had known each-other for long enough that he’d probably be more concerned if he found out she had leapt to defend his character.

Instead, she focuses on the second part of Ciri’s enthusiastic outburst. “Jaskier is far more of a songbird than a butterfly, little lion.” Ciri merely narrows her eyes.

“So you _do_ know him then! Is he here? Can I see him? I wanted to say thank you for yesterday and sorry for leaving without saying goodbye.”

Out of the corner of her eye, Yen can see Dara pouting and sliding down in his chair a little at the mention of Jaskier. He looks almost _jealous_. It almost makes Yennefer want to meddle in more people’s love-lives.

Then again, Dara has nothing to fear from Jaskier on _that_ front. For starters, Ciri is a _baby_ , and while Jaskier is capable of falling in love with pretty much anyone, he’s never before displayed a penchant for infants. Besides, he’s more than enough smitten with her father, a fact that will become very clear the moment he realises that Ciri is here. Which he still hopefully won’t.

“Well,” says Yen, leaning forward slightly and quietening her voice. Ciri mirrors her actions, desperate to know what secrets she is about to spill. Even Dara doesn’t seem to be able to stop himself from being intrigued. “I do _happen_ to know Jaskier. He’s rather talkative for my taste, but I think he’s _exactly_ the right sort of person to encourage Geralt out of his shell a bit.” No need to mention Jaskier’s almighty crush on Ciri’s adoptive father just yet. That would only complicate things. “So what do you say, Ciri? Do you want to help out?”

Ciri nods, her eyes bright with excitement. “Of course, Aunt Yen! I’m _definitely_ in.”

Dara’s eyes flicker between Ciri and Yen, a frown wrinkling his forehead. “This a bad idea, Ciri. You _know_ you’ll be in trouble if your dad finds out you’re here. And if he finds out you’re meddling…” His eyes widen a little at the thought. Of course the boy is almost as scared of Geralt as he is of Yen. He’s probably more than a little scared of Ciri too, though obvious his little crush on her outweighs that, given that he’s with her in this café that she has apparently been banned from outright.

“Oh you worry too much, Dara,” Ciri says, almost flippantly. Hurt flashes across the boy’s face.

“You don’t worry _enough_ ,” he replies, but it is quiet, far too quiet for Ciri to hear him, even though she is sitting right next to him. Yen can pick it up easily, though; vampires are predators, after all. She looks at him, brow raised. The elven boy seems to shrink a little within himself. Instead she turns back to her pseudo-niece.

“No, I’m inclined to agree with Dara, Ciri.” It’s Ciri’s turn to frown, while Dara’s expression widens with shock. “Geralt isn’t impressed with people actively meddling in his life.” She grins, teeth on display. “We’ll just have to be extra subtle, won’t we?”


	8. Geralt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes, family is the worst.

“Are you going to get that?” Eskel asks, motioning at the Geralt’s phone. His ringtone is loud and obnoxious- the opening to one of those Japanese cartoons that Ciri likes so much- and he hasn’t figured out what Ciri had done to it or how to change it back. Geralt grunts and pushes it further into his pocket.

“No,” he says, shortly. “We’re in the middle of a business meeting. It’s unprofessional for me to answer it.” The music is pounding against his ears, and he suspects that Ciri had purposefully chosen the most annoying song that she could think of, but he doesn’t give in.

His brothers look less than convinced, especially as after a too-short respite, his phone starts to ring once again. Geralt briefly wonders how much it would cost to hire a mage to rid the internet of anime. Probably too much, and Ciri would be distraught, but it would be worth it.

“Just answer the damn thing,” Lambert grunts. “Business meeting- pah! You make us sound like some sort of stuck up Fortune 500 company. Answer the phone and then we can get back to planning this hunt.”

Geralt narrows his eyes. “We might not be a fucking snooty company, but that doesn’t mean that we should let ourselves get distracted. Lives are at stake here-”

“Lives are always at stake,” Lambert says. “That’s the whole point of it. But they’re going to be more at stake if we can’t contact you, because I’ve broken your fucking phone because it wouldn’t fucking shut up.”

Quicker than a normal human could, Lambert makes a grab for the offending device, but Geralt is quicker still as he snatches it away from him. “ _Mine,_ ” he says.

“I just wanted to put the fucking thing on mute if you’re not going to answer it! Since apparently, you’re too technologically incompetent to do it, _Geralt._ ” Chairs clatter and go flying as Lambert launches himself bodily down the table at the phone, which still hasn’t stopped ringing. With a screech, Geralt pushed his own chair backward and fends him off, determined that he’s not going to lose yet another phone to his idiot brother. That’s what got him in this mess in the first place; the fact that Lambert had ‘accidentally’ managed to throw his old flip phone down a selkimore’s gut as a ‘distraction’. Why he couldn’t have thrown his own phone is still a point of sore contention.

On the other side of the table, Eskel sighs at them, but as he’s also holding up his own device to film their bickering, he’s also a giant hypocrite.

“That had better not end up on YouTube again,” Geralt barks and Eskel laughs at him. “Why not?” he says. “After all, the last one I uploaded made us a decent amount of money- what was it those commenters said? That you have a great arse-”

Geralt and Lambert exchange a look and then, temporary truce established, they turn and throw themselves at their little shit of a brother. Who was evidently expecting that as he grins at them and dodges out of the way so that they land his recently vacated chair instead of him. Which creaks alarmingly under their combined weight and then collapses.

“You’re getting slow!” Eskel says. “If this is the talent you’re bringing to our next hunt, then maybe I’d be better off going on my own-”

“ _Boys._ ” Vesemir’s voice isn’t loud but it cuts through the chaos with ease of long practice. Instinctively, the three of them freeze. They might be grown men, but that doesn’t seem to matter when it comes to Vesemir.

“Eskel,” he snaps. “Stop filming your brothers. And if this ends up anywhere on the internet, I will know and you will be sorry. Lambert. Stop teasing your brother. And Geralt. Answer your fucking phone.”

“Yes Vesemir,” Geralt mutters, Lambert and Eskel echoing him.

“Good. And stop being so fucking immature, all of you. What sort of example are you setting for the pup?”

Lambert opens his mouth, but Geralt stomps hard on his foot and he closes it with a snap. All three of them know from bitter experience that Vesemir doesn’t actually want them to answer his questions, just shut up, show repentance, and not do it again. Lambert though, as the baby of the family, always tries to push his luck. Because he’s a brat.

“Good,” Vesemir says, electing to ignore that interaction. “Now, we’ll take a ten-minute break, get all of that energy out of your systems. And Geralt can answer his goddamn phone. Good? Good.”

And without waiting for a reply, he flings open the door and watches Lambert and Eskel shuffle sheepishly out, giving Geralt one more pointed glare before stepping out himself and shutting the door behind him.

Alone in the room, Geralt sighs. There are benefits to working with family, many of them, especially in their line of work, but a lot of the time it’s hard to remember what they are, exactly. Still. He wouldn’t change any of those arseholes for the world.

He picks up his phone- miraculously undamaged despite the chaos- and scowls at it. It’s quiet now, of course. Now that he actually wants to place a phone call, the stupid thing has stopped ringing. He brings up the keypad and stabs at the call button to redial the last number. He doesn’t recognise it but as he doesn’t label his contacts- just memorises important numbers as it’s safer that way- that doesn’t mean much.

“What,” he growls as the call connects, “the fuck is so important that you had to fucking ring me five times?”

“Er,” says a vaguely familiar male voice. “Is this Geralt?”

“Yes,” he replies, rolling his eyes. Probably a fucking telemarketer.

“This is Jaskier? We met yesterday. Your daughter gave me your number?” Jaskier? The ridiculously dressed barista? There’s a strange pang in his stomach and he growls. Probably the gyros he’d eaten for lunch. Wait. Ciri? What’s Ciri doing talking to Jaskier? Is she safe? Had Jaskier recognised her the previous day and sold her out to the Nilfegaardians? Is this a threat? Geralt’s heart starts to pound, loud and frantic in his ears.

“ _What_ have you done to my daughter?”


	9. Jaskier

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier holds a mostly one-way conversation.

Of all the responses Jaskier was expecting to get when he called the number that Ciri had apparently pushed through the door on her way home from school, an accusation that he might have _done_ something to the sweet girl who had appeared in his café drenched to the bone was not one of them.

Seriously. There was protective, and then there was _protective_ , and Geralt was certainly in the second one of those not particularly well-defined categories.

It was kind of hot.

Then again, every single thing about the man was hot, from his long hair like silver silk, to his eyes that made him feel warm like the sun, to his broad arms that could _definitely_ lift Jaskier without breaking a sweat, to his deep voice that did _something_ to Jaskier that…

Right. He should get back on topic, actually respond to the question he has been asked. Assuage the fears of an over-protective father that he had, what, kidnapped his pre-teen daughter? What sort of monster did Geralt think he was? He owned a _café_ for goddess’ sake.

“I haven’t done anything to her, don’t worry. I have even _seen_ her. She left a note, must have pushed it through the door or something, because my friend Yen gave it to me. Honestly I thought it was a cruel joke at first, because Yennefer is just _like that_. But yeah, she left a note that apologised for the fact that you guys left without saying goodbye yesterday, which was _rude_ , by the way, and also that she’s apparently been banned from going to café’s without you, but then put your number at the bottom because, I, er, I suppose she thought that we might like to talk again? After all, you seemed really excited about Slam Poetry before you left, so maybe she thought I could invite you again, or something?”

Jaskier trails off when he realises he’s been talking to far too long without letting his conversation partner get a word in edge-ways. It’s a habit that he’s been trying to get out of, technically, but who is he kidding, he always has and probably always will run his mouth.

A few seconds later, and he still hasn’t had a response.

“Er, Geralt? Hello? Are you still there?”

A ‘hmmmmm’ sounds through the phone. There is another pause. And then: “Did you say your friend was called Yennefer?”

And _that_ was what Geralt got out of that? Not that Jaskier had not, in fact, somehow harmed his daughter, or that he was being admonished for leaving so abruptly, or that Jaskier had all-but askied him to come back. No, he had decided to focus on the fact that it was Yen who had found the note that his daughter had left. Why is it always _Yen_ that people think about?

Well, to be fair, Yen is absolutely stunning.

“Yen? Yeah I did. Do you know her? Dark hair, purple eyes? Absolutely terrifying? That Yennefer. I guess you’d remember her if you’d met her. She’s a va- Vengerberg. She’s from Vengerberg, originally. I’ve known her almost a ce- years. I’ve known her a while now, yeah. Uh. Yeah.”

Jaskier winces. He’s rambling again. And he almost told this _human_ about _not-human_ things. He can’t seem to control himself around Geralt. It’s frustrating.

After another short pause, Geralt ‘hmmmmms’ again. Honestly? Is that the only sound the man knows how to make?

“I have to go.” Apparently not.

Jaskier lets out a sound resembling a squawk, one that make him very glad that he went upstairs to make the call, because if Triss or goddess-forbid _Yen_ had heard him make that noise, they would never let him live it down. He’s a Bard! He should be able to control his vocal chords better than that, damnit!

“Wait! Geralt! Can I call you ag-” The phone goes dead before Jaskier can finish his sentence. He throws it on his bed, and then does the same to himself. Damn Geralt and his broodiness and his sexy damn face and his inability to have an actual conversation.

All Jaskier wants to do is hold his hand and write songs about him and maybe possibly kiss him if he consented. Is that so hard? Why does the man have to be so emotionally _useless_?!

He groans, and pushes himself up. He’s going to go and complain about Geralt to whoever is still downstairs. They will almost certainly tease him, but he always feels better when he’s with other people.


	10. Valdo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Valdo is a massive arsehole, but at this point who can blame him?

“Open up!” Valdo bangs on the door to _Butter-cup of Tea_ , ignoring the way the flimsy wood shudders beneath his fists. If Jaskier can’t manage a simple reinforcement spell, then he deserves to have his door broken down, and he will fight anyone (probably Essi) who thinks otherwise.

“You think I don’t know you’re in there, Jaskier? Come on, this isn’t funny. Open up before I break this door down-”

The door opens, and Valdo nearly loses his balance, catching himself at the last moment. He growls. There’s no doubt in his mind that Jaskier did that on purpose. 

“Finally!” he snaps, glaring at the other man. “What is wrong with you, Jaskier? I don’t see how you could have forgotten our rehearsal, considering that it’s been the same time and day for the past twenty years, so I can only assume that you’re doing it on purpose-”

“Shut up, Valdo,” Jaskier croaks, and Valdo trails off as he gets his first good look at the other man. He’s dressed in nothing but boxer shorts and an oversized T-shirt that is covered is something that looks suspiciously like melted chocolate. With his pale, faintly green-tinted skin and red-shot eyes squinting against the weak morning sun, Jaskier doesn’t look good.

“Are you hungover?”

Jaskier winces at the volume of the question, turning, if possible, even paler.

“Yes, damn you,” he hisses back. “And would it kill you not to shout for once? I realise that it’s a perpetual state of being for you, but there is this thing called common courtesy.”

“As if you’re one to talk,” Valdo says, though he does lower his voice. He barges past Jaskier easily enough, entering the café proper, and marches behind the counter, carefully setting his lyre on a convenient table.

Jaskier stands for a moment in the doorway, swaying, before he realises what’s happened. By the time he manages to close the door and reset the wards, Valdo has already started up the coffee machine.

“No, no, no!” Jaskier says, rushing toward him- though in his current state that’s more of a careful shuffle. “What do you think you’re doing, you imbecile? That’s- that’s expensive equipment! It’s temperamental! I’ve got all the settings just as I like them, you can’t just barge in here and ruin them!”

“You’re going to be useless without caffeine,” Valdo says, banging down a mug of coffee on the counter in front of Jaskier. “And since you haven’t managed to make yourself one, then it’s on me to make sure you don’t die from a rehearsal of all things.”

Jaskier picks up the cup, takes a sip, and then makes the most terrible face. “This is black coffee,” he says, accusatorily. “This is awful.”

He does not- Valdo notes- stop drinking it. Which is just typical of that melodramatic arsehole.

“You’ll be thanking me in twenty minutes when you’re coherent enough that Essi doesn’t accidentally curse you. What the fuck were you thinking, Jaskier, drinking before a rehearsal?”

“Twenty minutes?” Jaskier puts the now empty mug down, looks at his wrist blankly for a couple of minutes before he realises he isn’t wearing his watch, searches his pockets desperately for his phone, and then reaches over and grab’s Valdo’s left wrist to look at his watch.

“It’s fucking eight forty in the morning, Valdo! What sort of monster are you?”

“One who remembered that last week Essi and I both turned up at nine and then spent fifteen minutes wasting time while you faffed around making hot drinks.”

“That,” Jaskier spits out. “Is called being hospitable. Something that you’re terrible at, Valdo! The reason we don’t rehearse at yours is that you don’t believe in breaks! Or any drinks other than water!”

Valdo grabs the mug, fills it back up with coffee and _slams_ it back down in front of Jaskier, hot coffee spilling over the sides.

“Like you’re doing much better,” he says. “Now have you sobered up enough to, I don’t know, get dressed yet? Or at least tell me what’s going on? Because you’re an imbecile, Jaskier, but you’re usually better than this.”

At that, Jaskier slumps, the fire and fury leaving his body in an almost tangible rush. He grabs a handful of sugar packets and methodically opens each and every one, dumping the sugar into his coffee. Valdo winces.

“Nothing,” he mutters. “Just- Valdo, you’re a dick, right? But if, hypothetically, you invited someone to an event, and they said that they’d come but then they bailed out literally ten minutes after they accepted… and then you maybe called them and they immediately accused you of harming their daughter, I mean if they hypothetically had a daughter! And then you maybe tried to invite them back and the only thing they really responded to was the fact that you have an amazing, beautiful, sexy friend in common…” Jaskier seems to lose the thread of his own words, tipping out another pack of sugar and pushing it around the counter with the tip of his finger. 

Valdo just blinks at him. “This is what it’s about? You’re upset because someone didn’t want to go out with you?”

“No! I mean, no, that’s not it. It’s just-” Jaskier looks up at him, and Valdo is reminded of why, exactly, he’s still in that idiot’s Choir despite everything. That look of uncomprehending hurt is unbecoming of a man Jaskier’s age and really shouldn’t work as well as it does, except Valdo knows that he isn’t putting it on. That he actually means it. “I really thought that there was a spark, you know? I though he was my next Muse.”

Jaskier looks as if he’s about to cry, and Valdo groans, wishing that he’d left it the hell alone. Maybe got Essi to deal with this bullshit.

“Look,” he says instead. “It sounds as if you knew this person for about ten minutes, and they don’t want to see you. Just get dressed, sober up, and we can get this rehearsal done and find you some other Muse. Go to the park or something; I know you like doing that. Forget them- you’ll find someone else to fall in love with. You always do. And it’s not like you’ll ever have to see this person again-”

The door slams open- Jaskier must not have reset the fucking wards properly- and a man strides in, bathed in sunlight like an overdramatic arsehole. The man looks straight up into Valdo’s eyes, then around the shop looking like he’s _sniffing_ it, of all the strange things.

Jaskier whimpers and hides his face in his hands. “Fuck,” he whispers.

Valdo sighs. “I guess we’re not going to have rehearsal then, are we.”


	11. Stregobor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A man has entered the café, looking for a _friend_

The ridiculously-named café is even more ridiculous on the inside, all mismatched settees and coffee-stained tables. It’s _disgustingly_ twee, and under any other circumstances, Stregobor would never be caught dead in such a place.

Alas, the latent thread of a very specific magical trail had led him here, and so here he is.

Breaking the wards over the door had been easy. Bard magic was strong, yes, but Stregobor has been alive for thousands of years, now. There is precious little that can stop him getting what he wants.

There are two people in the café currently, but Stregobor ignores them for now. He has more important things to worry about. The trail had ended _here_ , but he cannot differentiate _her_ traces of magic from the others that litter the room. Of course. Bard magic – this must be a Choir space. The perfect place to hide.

He swears under his breath.

He had been so _close_.

He turns his attention back to the figures standing by the counter. They’re Bards, most likely. Well, one of them certainly is, an intricately-carved lyre close at hand and an immaculately-shaved goatee gracing his face. The other is less obvious, being currently in a state of half-dress, but the magic in the room swirls around him, and Stregobor can only assume that he owns the building.

He looks harmless and pathetic, but Stregobor has never been one to underestimate his opponents.

“Excuse me, sorry, _Butter-cup of Tea_ isn’t open right now,” says the Bard with the goatee, “you’ll have to come back later.”

“My apologies, Bard,” Stregobor drawls in reply, stepping closer towards the pair. The half-dressed one looks up from where his face is buried in his hands, a semi-surprised look on his face. “I’m looking for an old friend of mine. I followed her magic here.”

He stops, right in front of the counter, letting his magic dance across his shoulders freely. He knows he looks intimidating – it is a style he has worked for a long time to cultivate – and he succeeds in making the goateed Bard step back a little, but other Bard behind the counter doesn’t even flinch.

Stregobor slams a detailed sketch on the counter. “Tell me, Bards, have you seen this girl.” They both peer down and look at it.

“I don’t know her. But, like, I’m not here very often. Jaskier, do you know her?” says the Bard with the goatee, his voice laced with nerves.

The other Bard looks slowly up from the peace of paper, meeting Stregobor’s eyes with his bright blue ones. There is no fear in those eyes. Foolish Bard. If he is not careful, Stregobor will give him something to fear.

“No. I’ve never seen her before. And I request you leave, _sir_. We are supposed to start rehearsing in” – he grabs his companion’s wrist to look at his watch – “three minutes, and would rather not have guests.” His smile is polite, and his voice warm and friendly.

“Well, thank you for your time, Bards.” Stregobor reaches out to take back the illustration, but the Bard is faster, snatching it out of the way.

“Leave that here with me. That way, if she does appear, I’ll be able to let her know you were looking. What’s your name, by the way? So we can let her know.” Stregobor feels his mouth twist. The last thing he wants is her knowing that he’s close behind her.

Then again, if she’s smart, she won’t appear in the same place twice.

But the Bard seems genuinely concerned, and Stregobor doesn’t want to let him know anything even slightly ‘untoward’ may be happening, so instead of protesting, he merely says “Stregobor, is my name. Good-day,” and heads towards the door.

As he leaves, another Bard walks in, a woman this time, with an angular instrument case. She looks him up and down as they pass.

“ _Jaskier_ , is that your-”

“ _No_. This _kind_ man was looking for a friend, and now he’s leaving.”

Stregobor doesn’t turn back, but he can feel the wards strengthening themselves behind him as he leaves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lmao sorry I know everyone wanted it to be Geralt but I couldn't resist


	12. Jaskier

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The aftermath

Jaskier _Sings_ , music thrumming through him and spilling out around the café, surrounding him in a nimbus of golden light. His throat feels like something’s died in it, and his head is pounding, and the two mugs of coffee are roiling unpleasantly in his stomach- but that doesn’t matter. Because this stranger has entered his domain and torn through his wards like they were tissue paper. And Jaskier is _angry_ and he’s _scared_ and he doesn’t know what the man- Stregobor?- wants with Renfri, but it isn’t anything good.

His Song grows louder and louder, fuelled by his emotions and echoing through the room. Absently, he hears the high tones of Valdo’s lyre start, interweaving with his voice (and thankfully free of annoying trills that Valdo likes so much). Another beat, and then Essi’s lap harp comes in, her notes deeper and pure and sweet, slipping in so smoothly that he barely notices. The music swells and rises until it’s a tangible presence, thrumming through Jaskier’s veins and he’s lost himself to it. Until there’s nothing but the three of them and the music.

_Protect. Shield. Sanctuary._

_Protect._

The music reaches a crescendo, and for one heart-stopping minute Jaskier thinks that it’s going to take everything from him, rip out the power from his veins and his blood, and he’s surprisingly ok with that-

And then it ends, and the three of them are left in the ringing silence.

“Bit of an overkill,” Valdo says. He’s slumps against the counter, takes a deep, shuddering breath. The fingers of his left hand are white and bloodless where they are gripping his lyre, but he doesn’t seem to notice.

Jaskier, feeling incredibly drained and completely done with the day despite it only being 9am (maybe? He’s not sure how long he’s been Singing and Valdo’s too far away for him to check), groans and slides down to sit on the floor. He glances forlornly up at his abandoned mug of coffee, filled with all its beautiful, beautiful sugar and caffeine.

“No,” he says, wincing at the hoarseness of his throat. “It isn’t.”

“What the hell’s going on?” Essi asks, picking her way unsteadily toward Jaskier and dropping next to him. She tugs at Valdo’s jacket and, with an annoyed grunt, he joins them on the floor.

“He tore through the wards,” Jaskier says. “Like they were nothing.”

“Ok, so he’s a dick,” Essi says. “But then, those parasites always are.”

“How speciesist of you,” Valdo says. “I wouldn’t let that vampire Jaskier invited hear you. She might do something regretful.” He snorts and glances the room. “That’s if she can get through the wards. You do realise that you’re going to have to key literally everyone into them, Jaskier? Far be it for me to criticise, but that seems like a poor business strategy for a café.”

“Oh shut up, Valdo,” Jaskier says. It’s going to be incredibly annoying to key everyone back in, but if that’s the price he has to pay for security then he’s willing to pay it. “And I wouldn’t compare Yennefer and _Stregobor_ ,” Jaskier says the name with a curl of disdain. “Yennefer has interesting dietary needs. Whoever that Stregobor was is worse.”

“And that’s not a generalisation against psychic vampires?”

Jaskier’s headache intensifies. The worst thing is, he knows that Valdo is just arguing to be contrary, now.

“No,” he snaps, wincing at the sound of his own voice. “Because look at this.”

He thrusts out the sketch, the one that he’d managed to claim from Stregobor.

Essi frowns down at it. “Isn’t that Renfri?” she asks. “What would a psychic vampire want with her?”

“Nothing good,” Jaskier says darkly. “Have you seen how detailed this is? The amount of time that he must have spent on the eyes alone-” He rubs his finger against the paper, and it smudges. “This is hours of work. Why would he give this away?”

“Why wouldn’t he just use a printer like a normal person,” Valdo grumbles.

“Exactly!” Jaskier points at him in triumph. “I’m never going to say this again, but Valdo has a point. Who wouldn’t use a printer in this day and age? And who would give me, a complete stranger, something that he’s clearly spent hours obsessing over? I mean this fucking thing has got _shading._ ”

“Someone who’s got a lot of time on their hands,” Essi says.

“A lot of time and a disdain for modern technology,” Jaskier agrees. “Neither of which look good for us.”

“Us?” Valdo says. “Why us? Isn’t Stregobor looking for Renfri? Oh don’t look at me like that,” he says in response to Jaskier’s glare, “she’s one of your baristas. It’s not like she’s your Muse or anything. It’s not even that she’s Triss; you only hired her a few weeks ago! Surely not even you could have bonded this quickly-” Valdo trails off at whatever he can see in Jaskier’s expression. He groans and leans back, his head thumping against the counter. “Of course _you’ve_ bonded that quickly,” he says.

“Just because I have friends-!” Jaskier says, narrowing his eyes. He only calms when Essi places a restraining hand on his arm.

“Valdo didn’t mean to say we should feed Renfri to the psychic vampire,” she says. “And Jaskier also doesn’t think that we should drop everything to, immediately, to help Renfri when we’re all exhausted and drained. And not wearing any clothes in Jaskier’s case.”

Jaskier glares at Valdo and Valdo glares back. Neither of them want to back down but- they also know from long experience that Essi is perfectly capable of enacting swift punishment if they actually start fighting after she’d ‘negotiated’ a peace.

“Fine,” he says stiffly. “Then I’m going to go upstairs and put some clothes on. You two- make yourself comfortable. Though I doubt we’re going to have a rehearsal now; that just screams bad idea with the amount of energy we’ve expended.” He hesitates. “And- thanks. For helping me with the wards.”

“Oh, what, we should have just let you _drain_ yourself like an idiot- ow!” Valdo rubs his shoulder that Essi has just punched.

“You’re welcome,” Essi says. “But you’re also an idiot; of course we weren’t going to let you do it alone. Now go and get changed; I’ve had enough of enough of staring at your pants. And while you’re gone-” she smiles and it’s terrifying. “I’ll make a phonecall. I think I know someone who can help.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Great, now we have _plot_ ThebanSacredBand 😭😭 I really never thought I'd be writing this much Valdo Marx! More fool me.


	13. Lambert

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lambert wakes up

When Lambert wakes up, the only thing on his mind is that he’s still really _fucking_ tired. His arm flails to find his phone, to look at the time. It’s not even nine thirty. Melitele’s _tits_. He’s only been asleep for like three hours or some shit.

He and Eskel been on a night-long hunt going after an infestation of weird bat-monster-things, which Vesemir had mentioned the name of and Lambert had promptly forgotten, as always. Eskel always remembers the names and shit, but let’s face it, all Lambert really _needs_ to know is how to kill them.

The pair of them generally work the night shift. It used to be Eskel and Geralt, the dream team, but Geralt now has a twelve year old to look after (the very idea of _Geralt_ of all people as a father still makes Lambert laugh), and so in the year or so since Ciri came into his life, the responsibility for dealing with monsters and peoples that come out at night has fallen on Lambert’s shoulders instead.

Which is fine, really. At least it's spring, and his shifts are gradually getting shorter. But damn, nine thirty is _way_ too early for him to be aware of the world.

Why the hell is he awake?

The phone, still in his hand, starts blaring out its pre-set ringtone, and, ah, _that’s_ why.

Staring at his phone, the first thought that crosses his mind is that at least his phone, unlike Geralt’s, doesn’t play shitty anime music when it rings. The second thought is, who the everloving _fuck_ is calling him fuck-off o’clock on a Saturday morning?

Lambert has never been known for his manners, but at least unlike _some_ people he could mention he has the common decency to answer his phone as soon as he notices it’s ringing, rather than _ignoring_ it for fucking _ages_ and de-railing the whole damn _meeting_. They had been planning the night hunt anyway. Geralt hadn’t even needed to _be_ there.

“Lambert speaking,” he says, pressing his phone to his ear and not bothering to check the caller ID, or to hide the sleep that is chasing the back of his mind.

“Oh, I’m so sorry, did I wake you up?” comes a lilting voice, one he recognises. It takes him a few seconds to place it, wrestling through his foggy mind. Then it hits him. Essi Daven.

He pushes himself up in bed. If he’s sitting, he’s less likely to fall back asleep. He hasn’t spoken to Essi in _ages_. They text on occasion, but they don’t tend to have schedules that work with each-other, especially now Lambert works nights.

The pair had met when Lambert saved her from the advances of a _nasty_ Elf boy he was _technically_ supposed to be body-guarding. Vesemir hadn’t been particularly happy when he found out that Lambert had failed to protect the boy so badly that he had ended up with three broken ribs. He never found out that it was Lambert who gave him them. Whatever. Lambert wasn’t allowed to do body-guarding jobs ever again, which was the way he preferred things, so it was a win-win situation.

In any case, he’d kept in touch with Essi a bit, partly because it was useful to keep up with things that were going on in the Bardic communities, but partly just because she was very sweet and didn’t mind talking to a Witcher.

But, back to the subject. Essi _never_ rings without prior warning.

“Lambert? Are you still there?”

“Oh, sorry, Essi. You’re right, yeah, I just got up. Is everything alright?”

Essi gives a little sigh. “Well,” she says, and then launches into a story about a Bard rehearsal and vampires and broken wards? Or something like that. Truth is, Lambert _is_ still half asleep, and Essi’s voice _is_ rather melodic, and it’s sending him right back to sleep.

“So, I was wondering if you mind coming to take a look around?”

“Sure. Sure thing.” He blinks as his eyes fall half shut. “I can come round about, uh, one? I do still need to get some sleep or I’ll be useless as shit. If you need someone earlier I could always send over one of my brothers?”

“I… We can wait, for you, if that’s ok? It’s just I think we’ve had enough of random people showing up recently – yes I _am_ including your new Muse in that, Jaskier – so I’d rather see a friendly face.”

Lambert snorts at the suggestion that someone might take _his_ face to be friendly. But, well, he’s always got the impression that Bards were just… Like That.

“Ok. I’ll see you around one, Essi. Text me the address?” He yawns.

“Yes, of course, thank you _so much_ Lambert. Hopefully you’ll be able to stop Jaskier from freaking out” There was genuine relief in her voice. How much had these Bards been spooked? “Now you get some sleep, and I’ll see you later.”

She probably hangs up the call, but Lambert is asleep before he notices.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me: has only seen the Netflix show  
> Also me: right this chapter should be a scene between two characters who aren't in the Netflix show


	14. Geralt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt isn't feeling _guilty_.

Geralt isn’t feeling guilty. Geralt, as a rule, doesn’t _do_ guilt; there are things to feel bad about, of course. Things that you wish that you’d done differently. But dwelling on the past takes time and energy; something that no Witcher can afford when they’re in the thick of the fight. A distracted Witcher is a dead Witcher, after all. And Geralt has seen enough of his brothers die- their reflexes slowed by the horror of fighting creatures not too different from the humans that they swore to protect- to know that guilt is nothing but a weakness.

Geralt can’t die. He won’t do that to his family. He won’t do that to Ciri. 

So yes, Geralt isn’t guilty at all. Guilt is not the reason that he’s driving his daughter to _Butter-cup of Tea_ to talk to Jaskier. He’s just decided he doesn’t need to make any more enemies if he can help it. And if that means making nice with a too-chipper and terribly dressed hipster for a few hours, then so be it.

“I still don’t understand why you said that to him!” Ciri says from where she’s sat in the passenger seat. She’s pouting at him, which is a useless endeavour on her part because he refuses to be manipulated by his twelve-year-old daughter. Roach creaks and Geralt scowls down at her; he loves his car, but he sometimes wishes that she was less snarky.

“Your safety is important-” Geralt says, staring resolutely ahead, but Ciri just gives a small ‘hmph!’.

“Blah, blah, I’m the Chosen One,” she says, scowling. Geralt shouldn’t find it as endearing as he does. “We don’t even know what that means! The stupid prophecy-”

“Hmm,” Geralt says, cutting her off in turn. Her parents had died because of that ‘stupid prophecy’. Pavetta and Duny were good people and had loved their daughter. Loved her and wanted her to have a normal childhood, convinced that they had taken enough precautions to keep her safe despite the looming threat. None of their preparations and power had stopped them from dying. So, excuse him if he’s a little overprotective, if he doesn’t want her out running on her own or talking to strange baristas.

Ciri still has bad nights, filled with nightmares of pain and violence. Nights where she can only sleep curled up next to Geralt, one hand clutched tightly around the toy horse that was a gift from her parents. 

He doesn’t say any of this to Ciri, but perhaps she hears it in his hum or sees it on his face because the remainder of their drive is in silence.

They pull into the small car park, barely managing to find a space that Roach’ll fit into and walk out to the café. Neither of them says anything, but Ciri slips her small hand into his, and Geralt thinks that maybe he’s been forgiven for his not-outburst.

Geralt slows as they approach the café, his eyes narrowing. There’s something different. Something wrong. The door is slightly open which, considering that the floral curtains are firmly closed, feels strange. There’s a strange scent in the air and Geralt tilts his head up to get a better feel for it, nostrils flaring. It prickles at the back of his throat and he growls. _Magic._ He’s sure of it. Interlaced with the scent of jasmine, and sandalwood, and chamomile.

“Get behind me,” Geralt says voice low. He wishes desperately that for his sword- still hidden in Roach’s boot- but he can make do with the silver and iron daggers strapped to the small of his back and hidden by his baggy coat.

“What is it, dad?” Ciri asks.

“I don’t know,” Geralt says, padding forward carefully. “But it could be dangerous. So _stay back._ ”

He doesn’t draw his daggers. Not yet. The last thing he wants to do is get himself arrested; Lambert would never let him live it down. And mid-morning on a Saturday is not the most inconspicuous time for a fight. There’s a reason that most of their hunts take place at night, and it’s nothing to do with the atmosphere no matter what jabs Yennefer might make.

“Hello?” he calls out. There’s no response. He tilts his head. It he narrows his eyes just so he can see the faint outline of a dome, surrounding the shop. Surreptitiously reaching behind him, he draws out his silver dagger and pokes it. It’s solid, and he shakes out his hand at the magical discharge. A ward. And one that he doubts anyone can walk through, magical or mundane.

“Lambert!” a female voice calls from inside the shop, and Geralt twitches. Lambert? “You said you’d text when you got here, I told you that I’d need to key you into the wards-”

The door opens, revealing a young blonde woman. Who narrows her eyes at him.

“You’re not Lambert,” she says, and her voice is low. Threatening. He can only see one of her blue eyes, the other covered by a fringe of hair, and it narrows at him in distrust. “Who are you?”

“How do you know who Lambert is?” Geralt growls back. “And who the fuck are you? Where’s Jaskier?”

The woman’s face grows even colder. “Valdo!” she calls over her shoulder. “We have more company.” For some reason she’s holding a stringed instrument in one of her hands, and she holds it threateningly in front of her. There’s an electric feel to the air, a sense of anticipation and danger. Geralt tenses. He knew that coming here was a bad idea.

“Ciri,” he says without taking his eyes off the woman. “Get back to the car.”

“Ciri? The Ciri?” That’s a different voice, a male one, and still not Jaskier. There’s another figure at the door, taller than the woman and with a truly ridiculous goatee. Geralt tenses even more. Why does this man know his daughter’s name? “Essi, what the fuck’s going on?”

“Ciri?” The woman echoes. “Geralt’s Ciri?” She looks at something behind Geralt- and he wants to roll his eyes because of course Ciri hadn’t listened to him- lowers her instrument. The sense of danger fades like the morning mist.

“A misunderstanding, Valdo” she says starting to smile. “You must be Geralt!” she continues. “Geralt and Ciri. I’m Essi Daven and this is Valdo Marx. And I think that you’d better come in.”


	15. Ciri

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi sorry for the delay! I got caught up in deadlines and shit

The moment that the pretty blonde woman – Essi, as she has just introduced herself – invites them into the café, Ciri darts forward, because she knows _exactly_ what Geralt is going to say.

“I’m staying out here until I know what- _Ciri_!”

But it’s too late, because she’s already ducked under her dad’s arm and-

Wham. She slams into something solid and entirely invisible. Some kind of ward? The man with the ugly goatee laughs at her, which is rude, seeing as she was just _invited_ in, but then Essi strums at the stringed box she still has clutched in her hand and hums a note, and the barrier seems to melt away beneath her hands.

There is a hand grasping the back of her jacket before her legs work out they can go forward again.

Her dad drags her backwards to look at her with stern eyes. “I thought I told you to _get back to the car_.” There’s a slight growl to his tone, and she can tell he _means_ it this time. Not that he didn’t mean it the first time he said it, but _now_ …

It’s the sort of tone that scared Ciri a little, when she was younger and she didn’t know Geralt so well. Now, though, she’s _knows_ him, and she knows that however mad he gets at her, he’s not going to hurt her, as wolfish as his growls sound.

And, well, her dad might think these guys are dangerous, but Aunt Yen knows them, and trusts them, so it’s not like there’s any real risk.

So she twists in his grip, and apparently he wasn’t expecting her to do that, even though he _taught_ her how to do it, and the momentum is enough to give her the chance to push through the barrier which no longer existed. She turns around to watch as Geralt put his own hand up, immediately stopped by wards. She sticks her tongue out at him. His face is thunderous.

“ _Ciri_.”

Essi strums her instrument again and gives another tuneful hum, and while Ciri can’t sense any change herself, the wards have obviously been lowered for her dad as well, given the way he strides forwards.

He grabs Ciri’s shoulder tightly – not enough to hurt, he would never hurt her, but enough to let her know that he _could_ stop her from moving if she did anything. Before she can complain, and before _he_ can tell her off again, a figure comes out of the door leading to the back of the café.

“Essi! Is your friend here?” says Jaskier, his voice wavering slightly. “Why did you let two people through the wards? I- G. Geralt. Geralt, hi. I. Uh.”

“Jaskier!” Ciri cries out, and the man’s appearance has softened her dad’s grip enough to let her run towards him. His clothes are as ridiculous as last time, a lime green blazer with bright pink skinny jeans, and Ciri is _so glad_ to see him. Whatever’s going on with the wards and, apparently, Lambert, doesn’t matter, because Ciri gets to see Jaskier again, and she can get Jaskier and her dad to talk, just like she’d planned with Aunt Yen!

She tackles Jaskier in a hug, and he pauses briefly, but quickly wraps his arms around her.

“Hey Ciri,” he says, “what are you guys doing here?”

When she looks up, he’s not looking down at her. Instead, his eyes are trained straight at her dad.


	16. Yennefer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yennefer has a hangover.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mwahahahahah. Payback for all those chapters of Red, ThebanSacredBand!

There’s a pounding on the door. Yennefer groans as the noise sends spikes of pain through her head. Drinking with Bards, no matter how sad and large their eyes are, is never a good idea.

Though she’d never admit it, she is less than presentable this morning; her hair- usually smooth and silken- is somewhat matted at the back where Essi had laughed so hard the previous night that she’d spilled her pint glass of Bailey’s straight over Yennefer.

Under normal circumstances, Yennefer might have flashed her fangs at the girl and let her stammer her way into incoherent fear… Unfortunately, this was not on the table for several reasons, including the fact that Essi is a Bard and knows exactly what Yennefer is (and doesn’t care); Jaskier would be upset if she harmed his friend; and where else is she meant to get her fill of Triss’ baking if she’s been banished from the café? Well, that and the fact that she actually likes Essi.

Pushing herself up from her bed, she curses as her hangover, once again, makes itself known. Perhaps she shouldn’t have let Essi make up for the accident by gifting her a bottle of shitty vodka. And one that seemed to contain more liquid than the laws of physics dictated it should.

Come to think of it, the bottle is probably still endlessly spilling its contents on Jaskier’s bathroom floor, which is where the four had ended up last night…

The pounding at her door pauses for a brief, glorious minute, and then starts up again. Who the fuck can it be? She’s made sure that no salespeople dare approach her door (now that was a favour well spent), she hasn’t ordered anything, and her friends would know that they court _obliteration_ by waking her any time before noon.

She may be a vampire fully integrated and habituated to the modern world, but she’s still a _vampire_ and that means that if she wants to adopt the same sleep patterns as a university student, then she damn well can.

The banging continues. Yennefer, using every drop of her hard-won pain determination, stands up. Aside from her hair, she looks vaguely presentable, but she takes a moment to cast a quick Glamour to conceal the dark bags under her eyes and her rumpled clothes.

She stalks over to the door and wrenches it open.

“ _What?_ ” she snarls. In front of her, an extremely nervous Dara whimpers, and steps back. As well he should.

“How,” Yennefer asks, “Did you get this address?” She hisses her words, baring her fangs which slide, slowly and dramatically, out from her gums.

“…Ciri gave it to me!” Dara says, after what looks like a credible attempt not to throw his friend under the bus. Yennefer would have found it amusing, how in love he is with Ciri, if it wasn’t for the fact that it’s so early in the morning.

“I’ll be having a talk with her about that,” Yennefer says flatly. “And why, exactly, did she send you over?” She doesn’t say, _Instead of coming herself,_ but it’s very much implied, and she can see Dara understands the unspoken words by the fact he turns a shade paler and steps even further away from her door.

She restrains the urge to smirk. Now that the pounding has stopped, this is beginning to get quite fun. Perhaps she _should_ spend more time with Dara if he’s going to be so deliciously terrified all the time.

“She, er,” Dara squeaks. “She wanted me to tell you that she’s making Geralt go to the café!”

Yennefer closes her eyes and takes a deep, steadying breath. “Of course she is,” she says. “I shall have to work with Cirilla on the concept of _subtlety_.” Yennefer had told Ciri that she should ensure that Geralt get Jaskier’s phone number- _in a way that maintained plausible deniability-_ so that they could open up lines of communication. Unfortunately Ciri has spent far too long with Geralt and is distressingly straightforward. And is somehow the only person not to realise that her father is overprotective to a fault when it comes to anything to do with his daughter.

Hence the Bailey’s. And the hangover. And the vague and traumatising memories of five increasingly dirty rounds of Cards Against Humanity.

“Wait here,” Yennefer barks, slamming the door shut. She can hear Dara’s muffled questions through the door, but she ignores them. She needs a quick shower and a change of clothes, and then she has to get to _Butter-cup of Tea._


	17. Essi

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Essi watches and receives a text

It has been a long time since Essi last saw Jaskier completely lost for words. In fact, thinking about, she’s not sure she’s _ever_ seen him quite as incoherent as he is right now. He must _really_ like this Geralt.

Essi is not entirely sure why. Yes, he is _ridiculously_ well-built, and he does seem to be very, ah, _protective_ of his daughter, but the only expression Essi has seen on his face so far is one of mounting anger, and it is _really_ not an attractive look. In fact, it’s an intimidating and mildly terrifying look.

Also, in spite of Jaskier and Triss being certain that he is a human, they are quite clearly _wrong_. Jaskier’s overly-dramatic metaphors about the molten gold colour of his eyes have turned out to be correct, and really that should have been enough evidence, because humans _don’t have yellow eyes, Jaskier_. There is also the fact that he was attempting to stab their wards with a silver knife.

“What are you guys doing here?” Jaskier asks as he is aggressively embraced by Geralt’s twelve year old daughter. The questions is directed at Geralt, however; Jaskier is staring right at him, and Essi knows her friend well enough to know that he is utterly besotted.

Essi isn’t convinced that this is going to end well. She glances over at Valdo, who rolls his eyes dramatically when he sees her looking. The other bard looks like he would rather be literally anywhere else in the world. Essi’s not entirely sure she can blame him.

Geralt doesn’t answer Jaskier’s question. Instead, his eyes dart about the room, shifting between Ciri and the door and Jaskier’s eyesore of an outfit and the lap harp which Essi is still clutching in her hands. His brow is furrowed, as if he still can’t work out what’s happening here.

“We came to say sorry for leaving without saying goodbye!” Ciri pipes up, after it becomes clear that Geralt isn’t going to answer. “Didn’t we, dad.” She pulls away from Jaskier and spins around, fixing Geralt with an attempt at a stern look. Essi tries not to laugh.

Apparently Ciri’s words are enough for Geralt to stop looking around like a caged animal, and focus on the conversation he’s supposed to be having.

“We did, yes, but –” He is quickly interrupted by Ciri. It’s easy to tell how close the pair are, given Ciri’s lack of fear at talking over a man more than twice her size, and the fact that he doesn’t react angrily at her interruption. If anything, he’s resigned. Clearly this is a conversation he’s had to put up with multiple times.

“Because it was _very rude_ to say we’d stay and then leave!” Ciri sounds indignant.

“I know Ciri, but I really don’t think –”

“And Jaskier was really _nice_ to me and I really like him and I know you do too and –”

“ _Ciri_.” And _damn_ , that is a serious tone, because there are shivers running up Essi’s spine, and Valdo takes a step back (and crashes into the corner of the counter), and even Ciri, as fearless as she is, stops talking. Jaskier is still staring at Geralt as though he hung the moon, but Essi has given up hope by now of Jaskier having appropriate reactions to things Geralt-related.

There are a few moments of silence. Everyone is staring at the white-haired man, who takes a breath, as if trying to collect his thoughts. Eventually, he turns to Jaskier and starts talking.

“We came here to apologise, but given that wards have been put up this is clearly not the time, and we’re going to leave now.” He holds a hand out to Ciri, whose face falls dramatically, but she walks away from Jaskier and to her father.

“Wait, wait a second, hold on just for one moment.” The threat of Geralt – and Ciri, Essi supposes, but probably largely Geralt – leaving is enough to finally shake Jaskier from his previous stupor. “You know about the wards? How do- How do you- I don’t- What?”

Geralt fixes him with a look that suggests to Essi either that he’s trying to work out how to respond to Jaskier or that he’s massively constipated. Before he can say anything, though, Essi’s phone starts making a very loud noise in her pocket.

Lambert: hey Ess im outside can you let me in pls?

Her eyes widened. Lambert! She’d almost completely forgotten about him, and everything that had happened this morning, with all the mayhem Geralt and Ciri’s surprise arrival had caused. The memory of Geralt growling at her for knowing who Lambert is suddenly comes flooding back.

If Geralt knows Lambert, then that would mean…

It dawns on Essi that she’s seen yellow eyes like Geralt’s before. She gasps.

“Essi, are you ok?” comes Jaskier’s voice, and Essi suddenly realises that everyone in the room in staring at her with various levels of suspicion and concern. Her phone vibrates in her hand again.

Lambert: also theres a scary vampire lady and an elf boy here to watch drama? i thought it was an emergency?

Essi ignores Jaskier’s question and goes to the door with her lap harp to let Lambert, presumably-Yennefer and whoever the kid was inside. There was going to be plenty of confusion once they got in, there was no point in trying to explain anything before that.

She opens the door, and with a few strums of her harp the three of them are allowed through the wards.

Yennefer and the boy go through first. Behind her she hears “Yennefer?”, “Dara, you brought Aunt Yen!”, and “Wait, you two know _Yennefer_?” from Geralt, Ciri, and Jaskier.

Before Lambert can go in, she stops him. “I promise there is an actual valid reason I asked you to come, but we apparently have to deal with my friend’s bullshit emotional drama first. I’m really sorry.”

She really _is_ sorry. She likes Lambert, he’s always been very kind and sweet to her, and she hates that she’s dragged him out of bed after a night of work to witness whatever is about to happen here.

“It’s fine, Essi, don’t worry about it.” He smiles at her almost sweetly, and she gets the feeling that it’s not an expression that frequently finds its way onto his face, which makes her value it all the more. Then it twists into its normal, more sarcastic grin. “Besides, I love a bit of dram-” He pauses. Sniffs the air. Looks back at Essi, frowning. “Essi, no offence, but why by Melitele’s tits are my brother and niece in this fucking café.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's been a while guys! I've been working on a big piece of coursework for the past forever and it's finally done! We have a few weeks of exams coming up, so updates might continue to be a bit random (or we'll use this fic as a study break. Who knows!)


	18. Valdo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Valdo grouses

They end up raiding the café for leftover pastries- those that haven’t been consumed the night before- and deciding to move to a nearby park, braving the dubious warmth of an April day.

“I have no idea what’s going on,” Valdo mutters to Essi, his hands burdened with thermos flasks full of boiling water. His lyre is slung on his back because there’s no way that he’s going to leave that behind when the world has clearly gone mad, but he’s not sure how much help it’s going to be as he can’t reach it due to the aforementioned and incredibly heavy thermos flasks. “And are we sure that it’s a good idea, leaving the place that we just _heavily warded_ to sit in the park?”

“It’s better than accidentally destroying the café,” Essi says. The only thing that she’s carrying is a plastic Tesco’s bag full of teabags and instant coffee, he notes with annoyance. Typical. He’s always the pack mule, just because he’s the only one of the three to have chosen an instrument that’s actually _transportable_.

“Would anyone be able to tell?” Valdo asks, then winces as Essi punches him- not so lightly- on the shoulder.

“Jaskier’s worked hard on this-” Essi starts.

“-maybe he has, but that doesn’t mean that it looks any less like an Oxfam has offloaded all its unwanted donations into it. It doesn’t make any money, Essi! The only thing that’s keeping this place going is optimism and a few decades worth of careful investments. How many times has Jaskier been investigated by HM Revenue?”

Essi rolls her eyes. “Seven, last I heard,” she admits. “They’re convinced it’s a front for the mob.”

Both of them take a moment to stare at Jaskier, in all of his eye-watering intensity, his lute case bouncing awkwardly on his back. Valdo’s pretty sure that he doesn’t own any normal clothes- he knows for a fact that the dark shirt that he gifted him the one year that he drew Jaskier’s name for Secret Santa had been burnt. Because the bastard had made sure to do it in front of him while staring directly into his eyes and monologuing about ‘idiots with no imagination who couldn’t give a good gift if their life depended on it’. Prick.

“No wonder this country’s falling into wreck and ruin,” Valdo says, “If that’s the sort of conclusions that Her Majesty’s government comes up with. I mean yes, we are technically an extra-governmental group that meets at Jaskier’s café each week, but we’re not exactly the mob. The mob is better organised for one. And actually has a dress sense.”

“Oh, lighten up, Valdo,” Essi says, but she doesn’t make any move to defend Jaskier’s wardrobe. She also doesn’t offer to take any of the thermos flasks from him. 

“Why should I?” he asks, following their frankly ludicrous procession out the door. Jaskier and his _Muse_ are at the front, awkwardly not talking to each other over the top of Ciri’s head. “I’m stuck in a fucking romcom with two of the most idiotically oblivious idiots alive; there’s an egomaniacal vampire after Renfri, who threatened to _stab me_ last time I saw her; and your boyfriend, who you’ve never mentioned, won’t stop glaring at me!”

In front of them, Essi’s Witcher stiffens, muscles clenching, and he growls. Valdo flinches back, wondering whether a thrown thermos flask will delay the Witcher long enough that he can take out his lyre-

“Lambert,” Jaskier’s Muse growls from the front without bothering to turn around, and Essi’s boytoy- _Lambert_ \- bares his teeth in a scowl and stops glaring.

“…I fucking hate Witchers,” Valdo says.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is certainly something? I mean, I didn't mean to have an entire chapter of Valdo Marx dissing Jaskier's fashion choices, but... here it is anyway 😅


	19. Jaskier

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finally, people start talking

“Right.” Jaskier rubs his hands together as something to do, surveying the picnic blanket that he has just spread out. In the middle, they’ve placed all the pastries and tea and whatever random things they brought with them. No-one is sitting down. “Right.”

He decides to take the initiative and almost crumples into a heap on one edge of the blanket. He’s still very, well, confused as to what on earth is happening, and after walking so close to Geralt on the way here – even though they hadn’t talked _at all_ – he feels emotionally exhausted.

One by one, the others start to sit down. Jaskier tries not to let his face show the fact that his heart sinks when Geralt sits about as far away from him as possible. Ciri sits close to her father, although she keeps throwing mournful looks towards Jaskier, and her friend – Dara, she introduced him as – kneels by her side, looking very much out of his depth. Valdo scowls as he sets his flask of hot water down. Yennefer has somehow acquired a camping chair so she doesn’t have to sit on the floor, ad Jaskier decides immediately that he doesn’t want to know where she got it. Essi pulls her Witcher friend down to sit beside her.

Her Witcher friend who she has never once mentioned before now. Her Witcher friend who is Geralt’s brother.

 _Geralt_ is a Witcher.

Fuck.

“Right.” He says, again.

“You’ve said that three times in the last three minutes, Jaskier. Has your mouth _finally_ run out of words? I’m relieved to say the least.” Valdo sounds triumphant, and Jaskier really wants to punch the shit-eating grin off his face, or at least tell him exactly where to shove his words, but there are _children_ present, and Jaskier can, on occasion, be the bigger person.

Well, he’ll say that’s the reason, if anyone asks him later. The truth is that Valdo Marx is, for once in his life, possibly right. Jaskier’s mouth _does_ seem to have run out of words, his brain is still struggling to work out exactly what is happening and where and how and _why_.

Essi – his darling, sweet Essi, a beautiful cinnamon roll, too good for this world, too pure – rescues them all from his awkward silence with a clap of her hands.

“So. Hi! Sorry about the confusion. There are two very different reasons everyone is here, of varying levels of importance. I propose that everyone has a cup of tea – or coffee – and then we’ll proceed the order of business.” She immediately starts setting out cups and pouring the water, leaving no room for anyone to protest.

Before Jaskier is entirely aware of what’s happening, everyone has a cup of tea, or coffee, or in the case of Ciri and Dara, hot chocolate, made with powder that Jaskier hadn’t even realised they’d brought.

He stares down at the cup being pressed into his hands, as if it can offer any kind of rational explanation as to what is going on.

Essi starts talking again before his tea can answer.

“Normally, I’d suggest that whatever apology Geralt came to deliver should happen first so him and Jaskier can talk about it and get it out of the way quickly –”

She is interrupted by a pair of snorts.

“Nothing involving _Geralt_ attempting to talk about his feelings is going to take less than an hour, it’s like pulling teeth,” says Lambert, at the same time as Valdo says:

“Nothing involving Jaskier and _talking_ is going to be ‘over quickly’, he doesn’t know how to shut the fuck up.”

The pair eye each-other warily, before Lambert cracks a toothy grin. “Maybe we _will_ get on, Bard,” he says, his voice full of mirth, and Valdo smirks in return. Jaskier feels like he should be glad that his crush’s brother is getting along with his fr- his Choirmate, but he can’t help but think that the pair of the teaming up might be the worst thing to ever happen in the history of embarrassing things.

Essi shoots them both a glare, and they both immediately stop grinning at each other, Valdo waving his hands in the air and Lambert miming zipping his lips shut. Clearly he really _does_ know Essi, well enough to know to be wary of her glares.

Jaskier can’t _believe_ Essi didn’t tell him that she’d befriended a Witcher. That was rude, and he is going to grill her to get her to tell him the story later.

“As I was saying, I would _normally_ say that conversation should happen first, but given the, ah, _stated_ _facts_ ,” she says, gesturing towards Valdo and Lambert, who glance at each other and try not to grin, “and the rather more serious nature of the other situation, I’m going to say that we start with that one.”

Jaskier grimaces. In his shock about Geralt, Stregobor and his creepy eyes and his bizarre hand-drawn sketch of Renfri had completely skipped his mind.

Essi is looking at him expectantly, and he suddenly remembers that she wasn’t actually _there_ when Stregobor had arrived. By the goddess, it feels like it all happened days ago, even though it was only a few hours. It would be up to him and Valdo, then, to relate the tale.

Which meant, unfortunately, that it was up to Jaskier, because Valdo is raising an eyebrow at him and giving the general impression that he has no intention of giving his explanation of this morning’s interruption.

“A vampire came into the café earlier, just before nine. Not like, a normal one, either, one of those that uses magic and drains people of energy. He just walked through the wards like they weren’t even there, even though I _specifically_ set them up to discourage unwelcome magic-users. Said he was following the trail of someone, and gave us a hand-drawn sketch of one of my new employees, Renfri Creyden. I mean, I obviously told him I didn’t know her because he gave me the creeps. So I said I’d let her know someone was looking for her if I ever saw her and he just, left.”

Both Lambert and Geralt are leaning towards him, eyes narrowed, as if the very idea of a malicious magic-user has been enough to make them forget the whole _other_ situation happening here. (Jaskier hasn’t. He can almost feel his skin prickle at the fact that Geralt is so nearby.)

“So, a psychic vampire,” says Lambert. “And you’re sure him looking for this Renfri was bad-natured? He wasn’t just trying to find an old friend?”

To Jaskier’s left, Valdo snorts a little. “Oh, no. He was _definitely_ bad news. Trust me. If you’d seen him, you’d know. And the picture is _hand-drawn_. And absolutely perfect. And he just _gave_ it to us?”

“It’s the fact that he just acted like the wards weren’t there, really, that scares me most,” Jaskier says. It is not beneath him to admit he was frightened. The café was his _home_ , his _haven_ , and someone who could have killed him without even blinking had walked in despite of all the effort Jaskier had gone to to protect it. “That’s why the wards were extra strong when you all arrived. I, ah, I panicked a little.”

Geralt hmmmmms. Lambert asks: “We’ll definitely keep an eye out. What did he look like, did you get his name?”

“He was about my height? Grey hair, looked human but his eyes were beady and evil. Said his name was Stregobor but I don’t know if that’s fake.”

“Fuck.” The curse comes from Geralt. It’s the first thing he’s said since they arrived at the park.

“Fuck.” The echo comes from Yennefer, at once surprised and regretful.

“You know this guy?” Asks Lambert, taking the words right out of Jaskier’s mouth.

The pair of them grimace, sharing a glance. Jaskier hadn’t even realised that Geralt and _Yennefer_ knew each-other.

“We’ve met.”


	20. Geralt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Fucking_ Stregobor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there is indeed a lot more angst and plot. I am so sorry.

Geralt’s hands aren’t shaking. They’re still; still as the mountains, still as the forest, still and placid as a lake. Except for none of those things are fucking still, are they?

He sighs, dragging a hand over his face. He has no idea how he’s ended up here, stuck on a picnic blanket like some sort of girl guide troupe, and surrounded by people he’d rather not talk to for one reason or another. Apart from Ciri, of course, though if the increasingly guilty looks that she’s throwing him are any indication, then she has more to do with this mess than she’s willing to admit. And that’s without taking into account that her friend Dara and Yennefer have also somehow turned up.

“Seriously, what’s going on?” Jaskier asks, his clothes burning a painful hole into Geralt’s retinas. Jaskier’s clothes are possibly the one thing that’s convincing him that all of this isn’t some nightmare, because there’s no way that his subconscious would be able to come up with something like that on its own.

He looks over at Yennefer, annoyed to find that it’s still an automatic reflex after all these years, and finds her looking back at him.

“Ok, will one of you start talking? This is fucking irritating,” Lambert growls at them, his head swinging back and forth and his nostrils flaring as he tries to work out what, exactly, is going on.

“Lambert,” Geralt says. “I think I saw an ice cream van on the other side of the park. Make yourself useful and go and buy Ciri and her friend an ice cream.” The words feel as though they’re being dragged out of him word by painful word, but he persists. He doesn’t want the cubs to hear this.

His brother narrows his eyes and Geralt stares levelly back, his mouth open in a silent snarl. For one moment, he thinks that Lambert is going to jump him and force him to speak-

-but then Ciri pipes up and Geralt feels a wave of relief so strong that he could cry.

“I want strawberry,” she says, getting to her feet and dragging Dara up with her. “Or maybe raspberry. Dara, if you get raspberry and I get strawberry, then we can share and taste twice as many ice creams. Uncle Lambert, what sort of ice cream do you want? Because I think that chocolate would be perfect, because then we can have _three_ different types of ice cream to share…”

Lambert allows himself to herded toward the other side of the park where Geralt is hoping that the ice cream van is actually open. He still hasn’t broken eye contact and Geralt knows that he’s going to pay for that later, but by then he should have Eskel and Vesemir to back him up. Ciri also glances back at him as she leaves, and he sighs at the look in her eyes. Because there’s no way that he’s escaping an interrogation from her either. Later. All of this can be dealt with later.

By silent agreement, the rest of their party stays quiet until the sound of Ciri’s voice trails off into the distance.

“What was that about?” asks Marx. He’s got his instrument in his lap and is absently running his hands over it. In fact, all three of the Bards- and at some point he’s going to have to corner Lambert and figure out how long his brother has known that there are _Bards_ here- have their instruments, Essi petting her harp gently and Jaskier tapping anxiously on the back of his misshapen guitar. It makes Geralt nervous. Extremely nervous, seeing the source of their power laid out in front of him. 

“Didn’t want them hearing it,” he says instead of fleeing. “It’s not something I want them to know.”

None of them push. None of them make any move to attack, or to Sing, or to play their instrument. Geralt still can’t relax the tenseness of his shoulders.

“Geralt,” Yennefer says eventually, and she sounds calm and sympathetic and supportive and absolutely _wrong._ “Do you want me to be the one to tell them?”

For a moment he considers it. Yennefer had been there at the end. Not for all of it, but there were only five people who had been there for all of it. Five people who were still alive.

“Jaskier,” he says instead, the first time that he’s addressed the Bard. “Tell me about Renfri.”

“What?”

“Tell me about her,” Geralt repeats. His voice doesn’t shake.

Jaskier shoots a confused look at Yennefer, then shrugs and starts talking. “I mean, I don’t know her that well- she’s one of my new employees. I hired her, er, a month ago I think? I haven’t really been keeping track. But she came into the café every day for a week before that. She’d just sit in the corner and work at her computer- honestly I thought that she was just a very stressed out grad student. She’s a good worker- snaps at the customers a bit, but honestly who doesn’t want to snap at them sometimes, people are arseholes. Quiet, a bit standoffish, but she makes excellent coffee, and honestly, I know that I’m an acquired taste, so I don’t take it personally-”

Geralt lets the words wash over him. He hates it, hates hates hates it, but Jaskier’s voice is calming. Soothing. If only he could trust that it wasn’t some sort of Bardic spell.

He doesn’t know what he was expecting or hoping for, but Renfri just sounds like a normal person. And even if she isn’t- because everyone around him is turning out to have some sort of secret at this point- then she doesn’t deserve to have Stregobor after her. No one deserves that.

“I met Stregobor when I was five years old,” he says, abruptly. Interrupting Jaskier. “He wanted experiements. He wanted to create mutants. He succeeded. And when I was fifteen years old, we escaped. And I killed him. Or I thought I killed him.”

And he scowls, because _this_ this is the worst part of it. That the sleepless nights curled around each other, the nightmares, Vesemir’s paranoia, Eskel’s overprotectiveness, always moving from place to place… the whispered reassurances to Lambert, too young to really know what was going on, that all would be well. That it was all over. The whispered reassurances that were as much for their benefit as Lambert’s. That all of it had been for nothing. That the peace and acceptance that they had worked so hard to find was for nothing.

Because Stregobor is still alive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This all came to me in a dream last night and I fervently jotted it down before I could forget it. please blame my brain and also ThebanSacredBand for introducing fucking stregobor in the first place. (oh god, what have I done?????)


	21. Lambert

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lambert gets an ice cream and an interrogation

The ice cream is at the other end of the park to their little picnic, and Lambert is _pissed_ , because that means that he can’t even eavesdrop into the conversation, and he’ll have to wait for Geralt to tell him later. Like, he gets that it might be stuff that Geralt doesn’t want _literal children_ to hear, but they just had normal human hearing, so it’s not as though Geralt couldn’t have picked a distraction that was closer.

Then again, Dara is an elf. Lambert isn’t entirely sure on how much stronger elf hearing is than normal humans. Maybe Geralt just wants to be on the safe side.

Lambert tries not to get too angry at his brother. He just wants to protect Ciri, Lambert knows that. It’s just that Lambert has been the baby for _ages_ , and he had thought that Ciri coming along meant that his brothers might finally accept the fact that, even though he is the youngest, he is still _hundreds_ of years old.

Never mind.

When Ciri and Dara – and Lambert, who is he kidding, it’s not like he’s going to buy ice cream for other people’s children and none for himself – have their ice creams, he herds them over to a nearby bench, rather than letting them go back. No point in interrupting whatever conversation the _adults_ are having. (He’s not bitter. Not at all).

Ciri got strawberry, and Dara got raspberry, because Ciri asked him to and the boy is a complete pushover, and Lambert chose chocolate, because he’s not an _idiot_.

“So, Uncle Lambert,” says Ciri, expertly rescuing a dribble from the side of her cone, and Lambert does _not like_ that tone. She sounds _just like_ Geralt and it’s kind of creepy, especially as she hasn’t actually lived with Geralt for all that long. “How long have you been dating Jaskier’s friend?”

Lambert almost drops his ice cream. He was expecting a ‘tell me more about bards’ or ‘what do you think they’re talking about’, not a drilling about his non-existent love life. He fixes Ciri with a pointed stare. Ciri looks all too smug. Dara just looks mildly uncomfortable, but he’s beginning to think that that’s just the poor boy’s resting expression.

“I am not dating Essi, Ciri.”

Ciri hmmmmms, and Lambert is going to have _words_ with his brother about teaching bad habits to impressionable children.

“I’m serious! We’re just friends! I saved her from some assholes and we keep in touch. Essi’s not a fool, she knows it’s a good idea to keep a Witcher around in case something happens. Even though bards are more powerful than they let on and she can definitely handle herself. She’s really very impressive.”

Ciri hmmmmms again. Lambert glares at her, until he feels something damp and sticky trail down his fingers. Shit. Ice cream. Melts in the heat. Damnit.

He licks up the cone, and then at the chocolate on his fingers. When he looks back at his ice cream, there are teeth marks in the top of it, and Ciri has a mess of chocolate, rather than strawberry, ice cream spread across her face.

The child is a menace.

At least it was just a ploy to steal his food, rather than her thinking he actually _does_ fancy Essi. Which he doesn’t. Not at all.

She’s just a friend. A very pretty, talented friend.

“Powerful and impressive? Sounds to me like you _like_ Essi.” Says Ciri, matter-of-factly as she wipes away the ice cream with the back of her hand.

Like he said. A menace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the record, vanilla ice cream is better than chocolate and I will fight Lambert on this
> 
> I originally wrote 500 words of very angsty flashback but then I deleted it all because while this angsty darkness may be originally my fault, I want fluff now!!!!!


	22. Yennefer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is much melodrama and new allies are made

Well. That had certainly spiraled. Yennefer looks around at the motley group huddled on the picnic blanket from her beach chair. Geralt has his head lowered, staring resolutely at the blanket and is avoiding looking at anyone. Marx has a look of morbid curiosity on his face, the only apparent thing preventing him from asking more questions the tight- and painful looking- grip that Essi has on his leg. Jaskier has his hand clenched around his lute which is making an ominous creaking sound.

Yennefer sighs. How has his gone so wrong so quickly? All she wanted was to make sure that the two idiots properly communicated because as annoying as they both are individually she does think that they deserve the chance to at least test whether their differing personalities are the compatible or unendurable kind. And, although she would never admit it to Geralt, she does want to see him happy- since he’d started looking after Ciri he’d ascending to heights of paranoia that Yennefer had never seen before in her decades of knowing the Witcher.

Though listening to what Geralt has said, the words that sound like they are being bodily torn from his throat- she can’t blame him for his paranoia. She can understand that- prophecy and Chosen One bullshit aside- he’s had something precious thrust unexpectedly into his life and is terrified of losing it. Of losing her.

Yennefer draws in a sharp breath at the thought of Stregobor- who she _has_ heard of and who is at least a third responsible for the stereotypes and prejudices that haunt all vampires, regardless of species, to this day- getting his hands on anyone. On Geralt. On _Ciri_. She had only been there at the end, had been the one to get the Witchers out of Stregobor’s laboratory; she hadn’t ever met the man, but she doesn’t want to. Because the images that she saw that day still haunt her.

“Now that that bastard Stregobor is poking around, Renfri isn’t the only one in danger,” Yennefer says, not bothering to soften her words.

“I know,” Geralt says. His finally looks up at them, his eyes wild and desperate. In the space of a heartbeat, he’s on his feet and looking toward the edge of the park. To where his daughter and his little brother are. “I need to leave,” he says. “Pack up and go. Get Ciri to safety-”

“Hold on!” Jaskier is on his feet now, lute abandoned (and carefully rescued by Essi who places it back in its case before it gets damaged), and he reaches out to clasp Geralt’s shoulder, tethering him in place. “You shouldn’t just have to leave! I mean, I haven’t known you for very long Geralt, but I’ve been told that I bond fast, and let me tell you; no arsehole of a vampire, no matter how powerful, is worth running from. Let me _help_ , Geralt, we can take him down together I swear-”

“ _Don’t_ ,” Geralt says, but he doesn’t sound angry. He sounds _scared._ He sounds like he had that day that Yennefer had investigated the strange smell of fear and pain and found four sets of terrified eyes looking up at her.

“It’s more complicated than _that_ , bard,” Yennefer says. Because Jaskier, no matter how well meaning he is, hadn’t been there. “ _But_ ,” she continues, “Jaskier does have a point, Geralt. You can’t just keep running- Ciri has a life here. She has friends here. She won’t thank you for uprooting her again.”

“She will if it keeps her safe-”

“She’ll understand. But she might not forgive you.” Yennefer’s voice softens. “And I know you, Geralt of Rivia-” from the corner of her eye she can see Marx incredulously mouthing ‘of Rivia?’ but she ignores him, “-and I know that if you run now and Stregobor kills Renfri, or _worse_ , when you could have helped, you’ll never forgive yourself.”

“I haven’t known you long either, Geralt,” Essi says quietly from her spot on the blanket. “But I want to help you as well. You’ve felt the wards around the café- you couldn’t enter them, remember? Well _we_ set them up. Jaskier and Valdo and I. You would be safe there. Your whole family would. And we’ll figure out a way to destroy him. All of us together.”

“It’s not the worst plan, Geralt,” Yennefer says. “You don’t want to live in fear. You don’t want to live Ciri’s life in fear.”

“Why would you all help me,” Geralt says roughly.

“Because we’re all idealistic idiots, apparently,” Marx says, lounging back and taking a casual sip of his coffee.

Jaskier moves slowly and carefully, making sure that Geralt can see his every action. He stands in front of the Witcher and stares into his eyes. “We’re going against Stregobor whatever happens,” he says. “Because we can’t let him hurt Renfri. And-” his hand half-rises as though he’s going to cradle Geralt’s face before it falls back to his side, “-because he hurt you.”

Yennefer sighs, watching the two of them stare at each other as though they’re the only thing in the world, completely ignoring the rest of them. Well, this is going to be nauseating to work with. Promising for their ultimate goal of getting them to go on a date though. Does saving the world count as a date? A least Ciri will be happy at the ‘success’ of their plan.

“You could all get killed as well-“ Geralt says, but he looks less tense. Less like he wants to sprint through the park and wrap Ciri in cotton and never let her out again.

“Maybe,” Jaskier says. “But maybe we won’t. And we have more of a chance if we work together.”

“Yes, yes,” Marx snaps, standing up and starting to shove the various remains of their picnic into assorted plastic bags. “You’ve decided to put your differences aside and pledge your lives to each other like a crappy 18th century romance novel. Now can we please collect the others and get back behind the nice, unbreachable wards?”

Geralt and Jaskier jump back from each other as though scalded, Geralt’s face a bright shade of crimson. Jaskier starts loudly berating Marx, his voice high pitched and rambling. They don’t look at each other. They don’t look at each other extremely pointedly.

For one brief moment, Yennefer and Marx roll their eyes in exasperated synchronisation. If she isn't careful she's going to end up _liking_ the man. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> is this even a coffee shop au anymore???? at least they can be protected at the café... fucking stregobor...   
> At one point this was a lot more internal Yennefer monologue and about 2 seconds worth of plot advancement, but we got through it! yay!


	23. Dara

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dara really hopes his mum won't get mad at him if she ever finds out about this

Dara’s mum has never been particularly strict. Unless there’s a family event or a solstice ceremony or something, he’s pretty much free to do whatever he wants over the weekend. The only rules she really gives him are the obvious ones: be back home in time by six, keep his ears covered when there’s even a _chance_ of humans being around, and ‘be careful, and don’t get into trouble’.

Unfortunately for that last rule, she had also pushed him towards making friends with the new girl who had joined his class in September. Which he didn’t regret, of course not. He loves Ciri! – Like, in a friend way. Obviously. Of course. Duh. She’s just a girl who’s a friend.

But that is beside the point. The point is, that being friends with Ciri and not getting into trouble do _not_ go hand in hand.

Take today, for example.

It had started as a regular, normal, Saturday. And then Ciri had rung him and asked him to go and fetch ‘Aunt Yen’ (and, oh my goddess, Ciri, _Yennefer of Vengerberg_ is your _aunt_ , and you want Dara to just walk up to her house like that’s an acceptable thing to do to one of the most notorious vampires in the city?) and bring her to a café so she could watch as Ciri tried to set her dad up on a date, and then they went on a picnic, and now he’s eating raspberry ice cream next to a Witcher.

And, yeah, Witchers are good people and they protect the vulnerable from humans and other monsters, but that doesn’t make them any less dangerous. Or terrifying.

The first time Ciri had introduced Dara to her father he almost started crying.

In any case, it’s not trouble in the _strictest_ sense of the word, but at the same time Dara reckons his mum wouldn’t really see this as being particularly _careful_.

Truth to be told, though, he’d rather spend time with Ciri and get in trouble with his mum than never talk to his friend again.

“Dara! Can I try some of your ice cream now?” asks Ciri, turning away from her uncle.

“Uh, yeah. Sure,” he says, very smoothly of course, and hands her the entire cone. The Witcher –Lambert, he thinks Ciri called him, but then he’s met a lot more new people today than he had been expecting to – mumbles something which sounds like ‘whipped’, but Dara isn’t sure what that’s got to do with this particular ice cream. It’s not like it’s soft serve.

Before Dara can ask him what he means, though, the Witcher snaps his head back in the direction of the rest of the group. Dara turns to see what he’s looking at.

Witchers’ eyesight is stronger than human’s, if Dara remembers correctly. But elves have pretty good eyesight too. Walking towards them is Ciri’s dad, white hair blinding-bright. As he gets closer, Dara can see a dark, troubled expression on his face. He winces a little.

“Wait, what are you two looking at?” says Ciri, squinting prettil- uh, squinting because her eyes are only human-strength. A few seconds later she shouts “Dad!” and vaults the back of the bench, running towards him.

She’s eaten all of Dara’s ice cream.

It’s fine, he doesn’t like raspberry all that much anyway.

Lambert waits for Dara rather than chasing after Ciri, which is nice of him, though Dara has a sneaking suspicion that it’s mostly because he’s still bitter at being asked to babysit them rather than talking with the others about whoever this Stregobor guy is.

“We’re heading back to the café, it’s safer there with the wards, and we need to come up with a plan of action,” Ciri’s dad says to her uncle when they reach him. Then he turns to face Dara. “You should probably head back home. Anyone associated with us could be in danger.”

Dara pauses. Getting into trouble by hanging around with Witchers and Vampires is a lot different to being in actual _danger_. But, then again, it’s _Ciri_. She’s already been in more danger than most people face in a lifetime. He doesn’t want to leave her in this. And also-

“If it’s alright, sir” – Ciri’s dad has told Dara multiple times to call him Geralt. Dara absolutely cannot _imagine_ doing that – “I’ll stay. I’ve… I’ve already been to the café since the wards were put up. I don’t… I don’t want him to follow me home.”

Ciri’s dad’s eyes widen, and then he frowns. He reaches out, gently, and places a hand on Dara’s shoulder. Dara does his best not to shudder. The Witcher might be huge, but he would never hurt Dara.

“We’ll take care of you Dara. I swear it.”

Dara trusts that he will.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me writing: "what are you guys looking at?"  
> My brain: Dara, what do your elf eyes see? THEY'RE TAKING THE HOBBITS TO ISENGARD TO ISENGARD THE HOBBITS THE HOBBITS THE HOBBITS
> 
> Anyway sorry


	24. Valdo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Valdo is third wheeling

Somehow, Valdo ends up being the one to clean out Jaskier’s bedroom.

“It’s not his bedroom,” Essi says, rolling her eyes and watching him poke suspiciously at a pile of eye-searingly bright fabric. “He’s not going to let them stay in his bedroom. It’s just his flat.”

“It’s the same thing,” Valdo says, gingerly picking up the pile with a gloved hand and depositing it in the laundry basket. “I mean, look at this dump. Jaskier basically just spreads out over the entirety of the room.”

His expansive hand gesture invites his audience- Essi and Lambert- to take in the bomb site that is Jaskier’s flat. It’s a nice place- a _very_ nice place, bright and airy with high ceilings and beautiful acoustics- but it’s also filled with an assortment of musical instruments of varying obscurity and value. One can hardly step in one direction without accidentally bumping into a zither, or making a set of cymbals clang, or nearly cracking a cello bow left carelessly on the ground.

“Where are Geralt and Ciri meant to sleep?” Valdo continues aggressively, not bothering to check whether the neon green trousers draped over the back of the sofa are clean and haven’t been put away, were worn once and are still good for a few days, or are completely filthy.

“I’ve got a system!” Jaskier had always whined whenever they were unlucky enough to share a living space for more than a few days. “If you tidy it up - _Valdo put that fiddle down_ \- if you tidy it up, then I won’t know where anything is!”

Jaskier’s system, Valdo is convinced, is just dropping things down wherever he happens to get bored of them, and occasionally wandering by and stacking them into piles.

“On the sofa,” Lambert says, glaring a hole into the side of Jaskier’s fancy coffee machine. “If that Bard knows what’s good for him.”

“He’s not that bad, Lambert,” Essi says, laying a comforting hand on the Witcher’s shoulder. Lambert visibly melts at her touch, and Valdo turns away, rolling his eyes so hard that he’s fairly certain he’s sprained something. “And it’s only for a while. You have to admit that the wards are more powerful here, and we don’t want anything to happen to Ciri while Stregobor is still at large, do we?”

“No,” Lambert says, probably repressing the urge vocalise at least a dozen more swear words, if Valdo is any judge of character, “Geralt’ll be inconsolable if anything happens to the cub. And so will I.”

“I know you will,” Essi says. The pair of them are standing far too close, Lambert’s head tilted down to stare into Essi’s eyes.

Great. Now he’s third wheeling.

_Kill me now,_ Valdo thinks despairingly.

Valdo coughs louder than needed, ‘accidentally’ banging against the set of antique Tibetan bells to his left. Lambert springs back at the noise, flushing a bright red, but Essi just glares at him.

“I still don’t understand why Jaskier gets to go off and help Ciri and Geralt pack their stuff instead of cleaning out all of his shit here,” Valdo grumbles.

“He’s a more powerful Bard-” Essi says.

“Not more powerful than the two of us together!” Valdo says, though none of them are quite sure this is true, Jaskier never having tested it.

“And-” Essi continues, ignoring his interruption, “honestly if we had to put up with the two of them making moon eyes at each other for one minute longer, someone was going to cut the air with the force of their sexual tension, and then use the same knife to stab them. Probably me.”

Lambert looks even more lovesick at Essi’s pronouncement, arms clutched around that ridiculously kitsch- and frankly itchy- pillow that Jaskier had refused to throw out for the past twenty years. 

“Yeah,” Valdo mumbles resentfully, continuing throw clothes in the laundry basket. “Having to put up with unresolved sexual tension. Wow, I wonder what that’s like.”

He’s ignored.

Valdo pushes down the urge to throw the dirty clothes in his hands at the pair of them.

He really hates his friends sometimes.


	25. Ciri

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sleepovers are fun. No-one telling Ciri anything is not.

When Ciri had worked out her brilliant plan to get her dad to apologise to Jaskier – with a bit of help from Aunt Yen, of course – she hadn’t expected it would end up with them all sleeping over at the café. Like, that had been pretty far from the expected results, which were hanging out with a cool new friend and drinking hot chocolate.

To be fair, she had spent the evening hanging around with _several_ cool new friends _and_ drinking hot chocolate. It had been a lot of fun, and she had loved every minute of it.

She was aware that there was danger out there somewhere. After all, that’s why Dara had stayed over too. But it was easy to forget about all of that when they were staying up late playing Mario Kart. Now, though, in the cool light of the morning, the danger feels a lot more _real_.

Her dad is tense. He’s always tense, but he’s a different _kind_ of tense, glancing out of the window like he’s looking for someone in particular rather than just for any possible danger. She’s not sure it’s something that anyone that doesn’t know him well would be able to tell. But he’s her _dad_.

His extra precautions are enough to put her on edge.

If that wasn’t enough, Jaskier is plucking at his lute with a frenetic energy. Essi and Valdo are also playing their instruments, almost without thinking. The chords somehow never clash, but that almost makes it worse. Ciri doesn’t have any magic – at least not yet, she thinks she might come into power as the chosen one– but she can almost feel the magic coming from them.

The other bards had stayed the night, but Uncle Lambert and Aunt Yen went home. Ciri is fairly certain that they’re all sitting around the café waiting for them to get back, but no-one ever tells her _anything_ , so instead she’s sitting in the corner next to Dara and eating cake for breakfast. (Which is another sign that something is wrong, because normally her dad is very strict about what constitutes a healthy breakfast food, and cake is _not it_ ).

When Uncle Lambert, and soon after Aunt Yen, appear at the door, all the adults cluster a few of the tables together and start scheming. Ciri can’t tell what they’re saying, because they’re whispering, and every time Ciri tries to get close to them someone notices, and then they all stop talking until she goes back to where she’s supposed to be doing her homework.

Dara actually _is_ doing his homework. He put headphones on and is playing music, which he says helps him concentrate. Which, fair, but also _not_ fair because he would _definitely_ be able to hear what they were saying if he didn’t have them in.

Ciri tried listening to her own music, but she can’t focus on work and music at the same time. And without the music, she can’t focus on the work because she’s distracted by every word that manages to reach her. Words like “wards” and “Eskel” and “vampire” and “dangerous”.

Those words are enough of a distraction anyway.

She she’s given up on homework. She can copy of Dara’s later anyway. He’ll understand why she’s distracted, and anyway he’s normally fine letting her do it anyway. He’s really nice like that.

It’s at about 11 when Ciri notices a young woman with cropped brown hair passing in front of the café. She looks vaguely familiar – maybe Ciri has seen her around the café before? There’s definitely something about the way she walks, the way she holds her shoulders, that makes Ciri think of… well, makes her think of her dad and her uncles, really.

The woman stops at the doorway, and her eyes narrow. She leans forward, pressing a hand to the glass, trying to peer in.

She knocks.

None of the adults at the table stir.

“Jaskier!” says Ciri, “there’s someone at the door!”

It’s as though the room freezes. They all turn in unison. And the Jaskier exhales audibly, leaping out of his chair.

“Renfri!” He swings open the door, plays a few notes and then pulls her inside. “Oh! You’re alright! I’m so glad!”

Renfri levels a gaze at Jaskier. “You could at least have told me you weren’t opening today, Jaskier, I wouldn’t have come in for my shift.”

“Never mind your _shift_ , Renfri, we were _worried_ about you!”

Renfri looks around, as if suddenly noticing that there is a crowd of people staring at her. Ciri gives her a little wave when their eyes meet. Renfri jerkily waves back. “What happened?” she says, turning back to Jaskeir.

“Stregobor came by yesterday, he was looking for you, he-”

Jaskier is cut off by Renfri snorting.

“He found me.”

Jaskier’s eyes look like they’re about to pop out of his head. Which would be funny, except Ciri’s dad is suddenly standing between Jaskier and Renfri, his sword at her throat.

“Where is he?” Geralt’s voice is a low, dangerous growl. Ciri’s not sure she’s ever heard him sound like that before.

Renfri doesn’t look intimidated in the slightest.

“Calm down, wolf. He’s dead. I killed him.”


	26. Jaskier

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier is _dying_.

Jaskier is _dying._ Not metaphorically, not figuratively, not poetically; actually, literally dying. There’s no other explanation for it, and no, he’s not just being overdramatic thank you very much no matter how many rolled eyes Essi and Valdo exchange.

He burns every time Geralt looks at him. This morning, while making hot chocolate, their fingertips had brushed accidentally when the Witcher had lunged across the table to stop Ciri from tipping the entirety of Jaskier’s raspberry-syrup supply into her hot chocolate, and Jaskier had almost had a heart attack from the pulse of energy that rushed through his body. Last night, when he, Valdo, and Geralt had squashed into Jaskier’s Queen sized bed (Essi had claimed the sofa and the children had built a pillow fort on the floor) Jaskier hadn’t been able to do anything but lie wide awake and on a knife’s edge as the soft tickle of Geralt’s breathe brushed the nape of his neck.

He’s bleary eyed this morning and even wearing the most outrageous outfit he could find after his friends’ ‘cleaning spree’ (a navy and pink floral shirt with a bright red waistcoat over the top and paired with neon yellow trousers) and downing five shots of coffee isn’t enough to get him up.

Jaskier realises that he does sometimes, occasionally, every so often add the tiniest smidge of extra intrigue to his stories- embellishing he calls it, outright lying his mother tends to characterise it as- but there really is no explanation for what he’s feeling other than impending death. Or maybe sleep deprivation. Maybe both. Death and sleep deprivation, but definitely not _only_ sleep deprivation.

Because- look. Jaskier has fallen in love with a _lot_ of people. He falls in and out of love- not lust, not desire, but true, unbridled love- at the drop of the hat, spreading his affection freely and without care for anything as paltry as appearances. Jaskier is intimately knowledgeable as to what falling in love feels like- one could even say that he’s something of a connoisseur. He knows the soft curl of fire that flickers to life in his stomach, the gentle warmth that permeates his thoughts, the way that the world shimmers and shines in a golden haze.

What he’s feeling is not love. Four days ago (and how has it only been four days? It feels like months and months) when Ciri first ran into his café to shelter from the rain and Geralt of Rivia first entered his life, Jaskier had fallen in love with his white-haired Muse. Muse to be? Did Geralt count as a Muse if he hadn’t Composed anything for him yet? Essi would know, but as he’s avoiding Essi for the moment after she threatened to garotte him with her harp strings if he ever so much as breathed another word about Geralt to her for the next twenty-four hours. This is, of course, a ludicrous threat as Essi would never risk harming any part of her instrument like that but seeing as she’s getting on marvellously with Geralt’s equally Witcher-y brother, he has decided that the better part of valour is making himself scarce.

Valdo would also probably know, but Valdo is part of the problem.

“You do know that you’re narrating all of this out loud to me, don’t you?” Valdo asks from where he’s leaning against the counter next to Jaskier. Somehow, despite having spent the night squashed against the wall and sharing a bed with Jaskier and Geralt, that rat bastard looks as fresh as a daisy. He’s even changed his clothes, which means that Jaskier hasn’t managed to find and burn all of Valdo’s old clothes stashes-

“Or it means that I went and got some toiletries and a change of clothes from my place while you were getting defeated at Mario Kart by two children last night,” Valdo says.

“Am I still saying all of this out loud?” Jaskier asks, eyes drawn inexorably toward the table where Geralt is softly talking to Renfri before guiltily flitting away.

“ _Yes_ ,” Valdo says. “More precisely you’re mumbling it under your breath at speeds that only you could achieve and only-” he snatches Jaskier’s coffee out of his hands before he can react and takes a tentative sip, “-after you’ve drunk what tastes like five pounds of sugar with an entire coffee plantation on the side. Gods, Jaskier, I’m surprised that you haven’t rotted your teeth, drinking this.”

“Well that not good,” Jaskier says, his hands still futilely reaching for his cup. Valdo moves it further back with a roll of his eyes. “I mean, Witcher hearing is meant to be _amazing_ ; I don’t want to give Geralt even more reason to decide that this town is too dangerous for him and pack up and leave.”

“Oh, he’s not going to be as stupid as to do _that_ ,” Yennefer says from behind him, and Jaskier isn’t ashamed to admit that he jumps into the air with a small shriek.

“What the fuck Yennefer!” he says. “You could have given me a heart attack!”

“I doubt it,” Yennefer says, easily plucking his much abused mug from Valdo’s suddenly nerveless fingers and knocking it back. “If this hasn’t killed you already then your heart much be stronger than it looks.”

Jaskier blinks. “Is that…a compliment? An insult? Both? I’m actually not sure which one it is, you’d better step up your game Yennefer. You wouldn’t want your next victim to think that you’re saying uplifting things to them just before you drain them of their blood; that’s just sending mixed messages.”

Yennefer gives a deep sigh, looking physically pained. Though that could just be the sugar and the caffeine hitting her all at once.

“You,” she says, staring straight at Valdo. “Scram.”

Valdo swallows nervously, eyes darting between Yennefer and Jaskier for a moment before turning tail and walking swiftly back to the main table.

“Er,” Jaskier says, realising that he’s trapped between Yennefer and the counter. “Did you…want something?”

“Jaskier,” Yennefer says, turning her intense gaze onto him. “Do you trust me?”

“…yes?” Jaskier says, wishing that it didn’t sound so much like a question. “I mean, yes. I trust you, Yennefer. With my life.”

Yennefer’s eyes soften and a small smile appears. It is not a friendly smile.

“Good,” she says. “Because the subtle approach is not working.” She shakes her head in disgust, muttering something about ‘bed sharing’ and ‘emotional constipation’ and ‘idiocy’.

“What subtle approach- ah! Woah, I-” Jaskier’s question is cut off as Yennefer grabs his arm and frogmarches his right back to the table.

“Follow my lead,” she whispers in his ear, and then-

-she shoves him straight at Geralt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guess who realised that she finally got to choose a Jaskier outfit!!


	27. Geralt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt is not expecting an armful of Bard, but fortunately his instincts are fast enough that that is what he ends up with, rather than a face-full.

Geralt is not expecting an armful of Bard, but fortunately his instincts are fast enough that that is what he ends up with, rather than a face-full.

Jaskier looks almost as surprised as Geralt feels. His eyes are wide, blue like a summer sk- No. Nope. Not going there, Geralt. Not thinking about how pretty Jaskier’s eyes are. Not happening. He swaps his focus, looking instead at his hideous outfit. It almost hurts his eyes, honestly, the red of his waistcoat clashing with the pink flowers that decorate his shirt, pink as his full lips-

Fuck.

He glances away from Jaskier, because, maybe, that’ll be enough to stop his brain from fixating on the Bard.

Over by the counter Yen is staring directly at them, smirking. Of course this is her fault. She knows Geralt, far too well. Knows exactly what he’s thinking, almost all the time.

Her enhanced vampire senses help too. She can probably hear his heart racing every time Jaskier’s laugh lights up the room.

Lambert will be able to hear that too. Fuck. He’ll never hear the end of this. Although, saying that, Lambert has a similar reaction every time Jaskier’s friend Essi looks in his direction, so maybe he’ll be able to convince his little brother to a mutual peace.

“Shall I leave you two to canoodle in peace, Witcher?” Renfri has an eyebrow cocked at him and a laugh in her voice. Geralt blinks. He hadn’t even realised that he was still holding Jaskier. Having Jaskier in his arms just felt… right. Normal. He _fit_ , somehow. Fit in Geralt’s embrace.

Ah shit…

He’s still holding on to Jaskier.

He lets go, but Jaskier stays there in his personal space for a second, for an hour, for a heartbeat, for an infinite amount of time.

Then he turns to Renfri with a grin and starts babbling, as if nothing had happened. It takes Geralt’s brain a few moments to catch up.

“… and I wish you’d let us know earlier that someone like that was after you! We would have kept you safe I swear it. And I’d love it if you stuck around, but I completely get it if you want to move away now. Bad memories, and all that.”

“No worries, Jaskier. I’ll stick around.” Her eyes flick around the room, sparkling with interest. “You’ve certainly got a _diverse_ group of friends, I’d love to meet them.”

And then Jaskier is gone, pulling Renfri around one by one. Geralt’s eyes follow them around the room, and he can barely pretend it’s because of his general habit of paying attention to details rather than the fact that he’s paying attention to _Jaskier_.

“So?” Geralt startles a little when Yen starts talking to him, which is. Bad. That’s definitely bad. He can’t afford to be distracted, not by something so stupid as lov… liking Jaskier. He should have heard Yennefer approaching him. That’s his _job_ , being vigilant, paying attention to everything going on.

But instead, here he is, eyes glued to a man he met only four days ago.

He barely even slept last night, hyper-aware of Jaskier on the bed beside him, of the fact that he was lying in _his_ bed, in _his_ scent.

He can’t afford to do this. There is too much at risk.

“So?” Yennefer says again.

“I can’t do this Yen.”

“But you like him.”

“I can’t.”

“Are you _serious_?” She grabs his arm and pulls him to face her, vampiric strength belied by her delicate-looking arms. He had still been staring at Jaskier. “You like him. He likes you. He’s annoying as shit, but he’s _good people_ , Geralt, I’ve known him a while. It’ll be good for you.”

“Yennefer.” His voice is harsher than he intends it to be, and Yen’s eyes grow hard. He tries again, less violently. “ _Yennefer_. I can’t _do_ this. I need to be able to do my job. I need to be able to protect Ciri. I can’t do that I’m, if I’m _distracted_ by him.”

Yennefer rolls her eyes, and cocks her head towards where Jaskier is introducing Renfri to Ciri. She doesn’t have to say anything for her comment to be obvious. Ciri likes Jaskier too. And Jaskier cares for Ciri. It’s written in their warm smiles and casual physical contact, an arm slung over Ciri’s thin shoulders, a few fingers poking at Jaskier’s ribs.

Geralt can’t give either of them anything like that. He’s all grimaces and sharp lines and stilted pats on the shoulder. How can he be the parent Ciri deserves? How can he be the _anything_ Jaskier deserves?

“I can _hear_ you brooding, Geralt. Please stop, it’s exhausting.”

“Yen, I-”

But whatever he’s about to say is cut off, because Renfri, looking curiously at Ciri, says: “It’s a good job I slit the bastard’s throat, because _you_ are exactly what he was looking for.”

And then all Geralt can think about is his daughter.


	28. Essi

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Essi exacerbates the situation

Essi watches as pandemonium breaks out at Renfri’s statement. Geralt growls, low and feral and moves to quickly shield Ciri behind him. Dara and Jaskier are also swept up in the Witcher’s protective instinct, the three of them shoved together and squashed between Geralt and a wall. Jaskier catches her eyes in desperation from where he’s pressed against Geralt’s broad and muscled back.

_Help me,_ he mouths at her. Geralt shifts slightly, pressing back further against Jaskier and Essi barely represses her own laugh as she watches the blood rush straight to Jaskier’s face.

She smiles back at the other Bard serenely, not moving a muscle. _Be careful what you wish for,_ she doesn’t say, but the message conveys itself wonderfully in any case if Jaskier’s betrayed look is any indication. Instead, she turns her attention to _her_ Witcher.

Lambert is stock still next to her, eyes fixed on Ciri and tension writ in every line of his body. There’s a half-eaten croissant in his hand that’s slowly being reduced to pulp. Essi sighs. And Hums; nothing large or conspicuous, just a simple tune under her breathe that’s meant to promote relaxation and wellbeing.

It may be her imagination, but she thinks that she sees Lambert relax at the sound. Relax enough in any case that when she gives him a little shove, she’s able to nimbly step out of the way of his reflexive swing.

“Go,” she says, jerking her head at Ciri and Geralt. “I know that you need to be next to your family right now.”

Lambert hesitates for one long moment, eyes darting between her and Geralt- and then he springs into motion, bounding over to his brother so quickly that Essi barely sees him move.

Geralt catches him and they rest their foreheads together for one moment in mute and mutual comfort, before Lambert takes his place by his brother’s side.

“What do you think they’re actually protecting them against?” Valdo asks. He glances up lazily at Jaskier and absently plucks a few melodic notes on his lyre; the music flies through the air, passing harmless and unnoticed past Lambert and Geralt, and flicks Jaskier on the ear.

Jaskier yelps- more in surprise than pain- and then yelps again as Geralt swings with narrowed eyes to find whatever had dared hurt him.

“You, if you’re not careful,” Essi says.

“What, this children’s trick?” Valdo asks, plucking another string, the magic aimed in her direction-

-and Essi Hums and neutralises it so that the magic dissipates in a small burst of unrealised potential.

In front of them, there’s a frantic burst of action- what appears to be Jaskier and Ciri trying to convince the Witchers that there isn’t any danger _here_ in this _present moment_ and to please let them go- but Essi is more concerned with shooting Valdo a narrow-eyed look.

“See?” Valdo says, unrepentant. “If he’d really wanted to, Jaskier could have shielded himself, even without his lute. The fact that he hasn’t is basically permission on his part.”

“Oh,” Essi says, giving up on trying to guilt trip Valdo- it never works unless he’s actually done something terrible and then it works far too well- and instead lowering her voice until not even the supernaturally heightened senses of the people in the room could overhear them, “I think that Jaskier is a little distracted right now.”

Jaskier chooses that moment to let out an actual whimper- it looks like his efforts to convince Geralt that he’s fine and well are truly coming to an unsuccessful middle, and he isn’t appreciating the way that Geralt is patting him down for injuries. Or perhaps he’s appreciating it too much.

Valdo rolls his eyes. “I don’t know what’s more painful,” he says. “Waiting for the two of them to get their act together, or that I know as a stone hard fact that as soon as they do get their act together they’re going to be insufferable.”

“You sound like a man traumatised.”

“ _Essi_ ,” Valdo hisses, and there is something wild and tense around his eyes. “You aren’t the one who had to _share a bed_ with them both last night.”

Essi laughs at him and then calls out with a trained Singer’s volume, “Perhaps you and Ciri had better stay with Jaskier until we’re certain all danger has passed?”

Valdo groans. Geralt is shocked silent. Jaskier starts babbling- about what, she’s not sure. And Ciri starts expounding on what a _wonderful idea_ that is, she’ll feel so much safer with all of them together.

“Was that _truly_ necessary?” Valdo hisses.

“Look at it this way,” Essi murmurs back, catching Yennefer’s eyes and winking at her, “at least it’ll be funny.”


	29. Renfri

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Renfri has been having one hell of a morning

Renfri has been having one hell of a morning, and that’s not even counting the fact that she was up into the small hours of the morning finally getting her revenge on the bastard who had made her life a waking nightmare for the past twenty-something years.

(She doesn’t know how old she is. It was impossible to keep track of time for a long time. She decided she was twenty when she escaped, and it’s been four years since then. Four years of sunlight and hiding. And now for many more years of sunlight and finally, _finally_ , freedom.)

She hadn’t know what to do. So, she had supposed, work was a good first step. She didn’t want to get fired, after all, when she at last had the opportunity to get her feet under her.

(She doesn’t know what to do, now. She’s never had a choice like this before. She can go anywhere, do anything at all, not have to watch the shadows at her back. It’s almost overwhelming.)

So yes, start small, she had thought. And then she had got to the café and it was closed. And then she had knocked on the door, been almost attacked by her boss, and found herself in the presence of the Witchers.

(She doesn’t remember the first time Stregobor told her about them, his favourite, most successful, ultimately _flawed_ creations. She just knows that he liked to talk about them frequently, let her know exactly what she was becoming, she was surpassing. And then she had surpassed them not only in the ways that he wanted, but also in disobedience.)

Talking to Geralt, however briefly, had been fascinating. Watching him watch her watching him. Measuring each-other up. His eyes had been wary, but there was a kindness behind them, one she has never seen in her own reflection.

(She doesn’t know whether that has always been his, or whether it has something that he forced himself to learn. She thinks… she thinks she’d like to find out.)

Their conversation had been broken up by the sudden appearance of Jaskier. She had had to look away as Geralt and Jaskier stared into each-other’s eyes, expressions full of what popular media has frequently described to her as ‘yearning’.

(She doesn’t know if she will ever look at someone like that. She doesn’t know if she’s capable of it. She doesn’t know if she wants to be.)

And then, almost as if it had never happened, Jaskier had led her out to meet the rest of the bizarre group that had found themselves in a closed coffee shop on a Sunday morning. It had at least given her the opportunity to look at anything other than his clashing outfit which literally hurt her eyes. It’s a strange group of people, how they all ended up together is beyond her.

(She doesn’t know if she can have friends. She’s never tried before. But, maybe, if this eclectic group of Bards and Witchers and a Vampire and an Elf can spend time together, there’s a space for her, somewhere, too.)

And then there’s Ciri. And Renfri knows, suddenly, that she is powerful, or that she at least will be, soon. And Renfri knows, instinctively, that if Stregobor had ever found her, not even a pack of Witchers would have been able to stop him.

And Renfri knows, whole-heartedly, that she’s even more glad that Stregobor is dead, because if he had touched a hair on this child’s head, she would kill everyone in the room, and then herself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This advances the plot by approximately 0, sorry not sorry :)
> 
> Hope you enjoy!! <3


	30. Vesemir

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Vesemir knows that something is wrong as soon as his pups walk through the door_

Vesemir knows that something is wrong as soon as his pups walk through the door, Lambert angry and Geralt grim, both their hearts thrumming just that bit faster than a Witcher’s steady beat. Ciri isn’t with them which means… which means that this is serious. 

The two of them have had their differences- the sheer amount of broken dishes and furniture could attest to that- but Vesemir has never seen this sort of resentful quiet that lies between them before. And then Lambert looks up at him and narrows his golden eyes and there’s an increase in tension.

The hair on the back of Vesemir’s neck rises and he can feel the wolf within growl. But Vesemir is old. Vesemir is in control. And more importantly, Vesemir knows these pups of his. These beautiful, broken boys who might not be related by blood but are his family. His to love, his to protect.

“Geralt, Lambert,” Vesemir says neutrally, staring them down as they cross the threshold into his kitchen.

“Vesemir,” they mutter back, one angry and one contemplative. None of his boys call him father and he has never asked for it. He knows what they mean regardless.

Vesemir stands and puts down his cup of mediocre instant coffee on the table with a _thump_ , the hot liquid spilling and burning his hand. He ignores it. It heals almost instantaneously in any case, the pink fading and healing back to unnatural pale skin. He doesn’t take his eyes off his boys.

“Are you hurt?” he asks, only half listening to their answer as he runs practised eyes over them, searching for any hint of pain or weakness. He carefully scents the air, grunting when he can’t find any trace of blood. That’s good. Still doesn’t mean anything though. There are plenty of ways of being hurt that don’t involve spilled blood.

“No,” Geralt says.

Lambert doesn’t speak. Just glares, a mutinous tick to his mouth that only makes an appearance when he’s truly upset. Vesemir will never tell him this, but he loves that scowl. Not because Lambert isn’t a brat- because Melitele knows that he is- but because it means that his son is comfortable showing his anger to the world.

Vesemir, Geralt, Eskel… all of them wear a mask of some sort, a protection not easily shed. A way to hold their emotions close to their heart, learnt early and through bitter experience. That Lambert has never had to form his own is a gift.

Vesemir waits them out. He is a hunter, he is a predator, and he knows the value of patience. His sons are accomplished predators in their own right, but he has the benefit of age and experience. And Lambert has always been hot-headed. He won’t have to wait for long.

“Who the fuck is Stregobor!” Lambert finally snarls.

…Vesemir was not expecting that.

He can’t help but glance over at Geralt- Geralt who gives him the smallest of nods.

Shit.

He’d hoped to never have to have this conversation.

“Don’t look at him!” Lambert says, stalking closer to Vesemir. “Geralt is being useless. Geralt won’t tell me a fucking thing. Look at _me._ ”

Vesemir stays perfectly calm.

“Geralt,” he says, “call Eskel and tell him to come over immediately.”

Something flickers through Lambert’s eyes, something that looks like betrayal, before they harden once again. “Eskel knows too?” he asks. “Of course Eskel knows. It looks like the whole fucking family knows. So tell me,” and he leans forward, straight into Vesemir’s face, “ _why don’t I know._ ”


	31. Yennefer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt left Ciri behind at the café when he dragged Lambert home, which is how Yen knows that this is serious

Geralt left Ciri behind at the café when he dragged Lambert home, which is how Yen knows that this is serious. ‘This’ being both whatever they needed to talk about, and also Geralt’s feelings for Jaskier, because it took _months_ before Geralt was comfortable leaving Ciri with Yennefer, and they’ve known each other for a long time.

But it wasn’t Yennefer that Ciri was told to stay with until Geralt got back, and that in itself spoke _volumes_.

Ciri had pouted at the fact that she was being left out again, but Jaskier had bribed her with some form of baked good, and now Ciri, Dara, and the Bards are running around the café kitchen.

Yennefer has decided she’s going to stay out of it unless (probably until – Triss has told her a lot about Jaskier’s failures at cooking, there’s a reason that, despite being the owner, he works behind the counter and not in the kitchen) fire gets involved. Which leaves her perched on Jaskier’s ridiculous mismatched furniture with Renfri.

She’s not quite sure what to make of the new arrival. Renfri is a picture of ease, casually munching on an apple with her feet propped up on a table, but Yen can tell that her muscles are coiled, waiting for the next attack. She reminds Yen of what Geralt was like when she first met him.

Renfri’s eyes, darting about the room, meet Yen’s. An eyebrow is raised in challenge. Yen raises her own in response.

Yen doesn’t give a shit that she’s been caught staring. She has plenty of time.

Eventually, Renfri shrugs and goes back to eating her apple.

Huh.

It would probably be a good time for a heartfelt conversation, if Yen was the sort of person who went in for all that.

Eventually, Renfri finishes her apple, throwing the core into a small bin in the corner. She wipes her mouth with the back of her wrist, and then turns her full attention to Yennefer. It’s a lot more intense than Yen was expecting

“So. You’re a vampire.”

Yen blinks. “Yes.”

“And I shouldn’t kill you like I killed Stregobor because…?” Renfri’s tone is playful, but her eyes are serious.

Yennefer doesn’t doubt that she could kill her. That she would. Geralt almost did the same, once.

She still doesn’t feel it as a threat. No. More than anything, she almost feels _sorry_ for Renfri.

“Well, for a start, you’d upset Ciri. And then Geralt would come after you because upsetting Ciri is a crime before the goddess, that cannot go unpunished. But, mostly, because I am not a soulless monster who experiments on children for fun, I’m a soulless monster that goes to Jaskier’s Performances and babysits Ciri and only occasionally kills people that really deserves it.

“I get that you don’t trust me, but everyone is different. You’ve not met a lot of people yet, but now you’ve finally got the chance to. So don’t throw it all away. You’d just be becoming what Stregobor wanted you to become.”

She’s not sure if Renfri looks like she’s about to lunge at her or burst into tears.

The fire alarm in the kitchen goes off.

Well, say what you want about Jaskier and his abysmal cooking skills (Yennefer does, frequently), but he definitely has mastered the art of timing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is two weeks late I'm so sorry I got bogged down in uni and ughhh. It also might be horrifically out of character but eh


	32. Jaskier

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier is domestic and still a menace in the kitchen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sooooo what did you mean the deadline was two weeks and not two months 😅😅
> 
> I'm so sorry Thebes, I have let you down! I have at least got a small and tiny smidge of motivation back in any case (and have no doubt spent it all on this). I'll do better in future?

Jaskier still couldn’t get over the fact that things were over. That the threat of Stregobor, which at the time had seemed huge and life changing, actually had ended with not so much a bang as a whimper. 

Well, maybe he was being unfair. Stregobor hadn’t been a threat this time, but he had been a catalyst for many things. Memories. Meetings. The knowledge that Renfri, as well as being able to make an amazing latte, was able also able to kill a man and then nonchalantly wander into work the next day.

Renfri truly had a better work ethic than he had; if he had been the one who’d been kidnapped and then escaped he would have asked for a week’s sick leave _at least._ Mind, though she still hadn’t told then all exactly how she’d killed Stregobor, Jaskier wasn’t quite able to tell whether the red stain on her teeth was lipstick or _something else_ , and either way was very definitely going to erring on the side of caution when it came to pay raises and holiday leave in the future. It wasn’t like he couldn’t afford it.

One of the biggest changes that Stregobor had brought to his life though…

“Jaskier? Is dinner done yet?”

“Not yet!” he called back, inwardly swearing as he realised that the eggs that he had been scrambling were looking less egg-like and more like a charcoal brick.

Ciri bounded over to him and watched nonchalantly as he yanked the pan off the heat and dropped the entire thing into the sink where it hissed and steamed and generally smelled pretty damn awful.

A week since she and Geralt had moved in ‘just in case’ (and Jaskier didn’t know whether he wanted to curse Essi for suggesting this and Lambert for backing her up, or whether he wanted to kiss them both in thanks) and this scene was already becoming a familiar one.

When he had told Geralt that he could handle dinner while the other man was at work, he had possibly been overstating it. He had managed to produce a non-burnt meal exactly once and that had tasted so bad that Ciri had taken one bite and declared that she ‘wasn’t hungry’. Geralt on the other hand had eaten every single bite of his which was most definitely worse. Since then, Jaskier had taken care to properly dispose of his creations the moment they became inedible because he didn’t think he could handle the guilt of Geralt actually eating any of his meals.

Without batting an eyelid, Ciri turned on the Xpelair and they both watched as the fan sucked up the rancid smoke. Geralt wouldn’t be back for another forty minutes or so. Plenty of time to get rid of the evidence.

“You should probably get Deliveroo up,” Jaskier said. “I think that we’re all out of eggs, and Triss’ll kill me if I dip into the café stock.”

“I don’t know how you can own a café and be so _bad_ at this,” Ciri said.

“It’s called delegation,” Jaskier returned primly. “I delegate the cooking responsibilities to people who-”

“Are less likely to blow up the kitchen?”

“That was only once! You need to stop talking to Yen. But yes, who have more talent in the culinary arts than I do. In return, I provide gainful employment, entertainment, _and_ sit around and look pretty. All of which I’ll have you know I’m amazing at.”

Ciri looked politely doubtful, something which Jaskier ignored. Honestly, the youth these days. No respect at all.

Well, Dara maybe. He was a pretty respectful kid. Though he also had a crush on Ciri a mile wide that Jaskier was keeping an eye on, not that Ciri had noticed.

“How about Thai?” he said. “You could invite Dara over?”

“Dad loves Thai,” Ciri said.

_I know,_ Jaskier definitely didn’t reply. He most certainly hadn’t interrogated Eskel, the most approachable of Geralt’s brothers, about Geralt’s likes and dislikes, and if he had nobody could prove it because he’d sworn everyone involved to secrecy.

“And I was going to invite Dara over anyway,” she continued. “We have that big project on the industrial revolution due next week…”

As Ciri talked on, Jaskier settled back and let her voice wash over him in a comforting hum. It had only been a week since father and daughter had moved in, and already he couldn’t imagine life without them.

Maybe if he just never brought it up ever again they could stay with him forever?

**Author's Note:**

> We are [Nemainofthewater ](https://nemainofthewater.tumblr.com) and [thebansacredbanned](https://thebansacredbanned.tumblr.com/) on Tumblr.


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